


A Wolf in Spring

by Revans_Mask



Series: The Wolf and the Rose [2]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, And all the rest - Freeform, Angst, Bittersweet, Character Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, F/F, Politics, Season 8, Smut, True Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-28
Updated: 2020-03-10
Packaged: 2020-03-26 12:38:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 23,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19005976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Revans_Mask/pseuds/Revans_Mask
Summary: After enduring countless tragedies, Sansa and Margaery finally found love together and thwarted Littlefinger's schemes for them, but now winter has come.  With Daenerys riding north to Winterfell and the Night King invading, the two women will be tested as never before.  The sequel to "A Rose in Winter."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is the long-promised sequel to A Rose in Winter. Like the previous installment, it diverges from canon but also tracks with it. Some scenes will be modified versions of ones from the show, and while things may come out happier than they did in S8, I can't promise a good ending for every character. That being said, I hope it will be a satisfying version of the final story arc and that all of you enjoy the ride.
> 
> Also, a note on pairings: All of the chapters are going to be from Sansa or Margaery's POV, so to the extent that the story is a romance, it's their romance. The other three couples mentioned in the tags will make an appearance, but any smut/love scenes will be Sansaery.

There were no warm days in the North anymore, but at least the morning of Daenerys Targaryen’s arrival was clear, the winter sun illuminating the fields of snow that stretched as far as the eye could see in every direction. From atop the battlements of Winterfell, Sansa had an excellent view of the massive columns of soldiers coming down the Kingsroad. The Unsullied marched in perfect formation, displaying a discipline unmatched by any army Sansa had ever seen.

Somewhere amid that host were her brother Jon and his new queen, but at this distance, Sansa couldn’t pick them out yet. The queen’s dragons were another story. As they cut through the horizon, every eye in the castle turned toward the skies, hers included. Sansa had seen so many beautiful and terrible things over the last few years that she had thought herself beyond shock, but this was still enough to steal her words. Dragons were legends and fire and terror and to see two of them here in North was a wonder even to her.

Beside her, she could see Margaery tensing and on reflex, she reached out her hand. As their fingers entwined, Margaery squeezed down and Sansa turned toward her lover, permitting herself a reassuring smile. There were limits to how much affection they could show in public, but right now Sansa was confident that no one was focused on the two of them.

From further down the battlements, Lord Royce gave voice to what everyone was thinking. “Now there’s something I never thought to see.”

“Nor I,” Sansa said, trying her best not to let her awe show. There were few whom she trusted enough to share her real feelings with, especially now. She used to be sure of the North’s support for her family, but with Daenerys on her way, the picture had become more complicated. Men would do much to win a queen’s favor, especially one who had dragons. “But it’s good that they’re here,” she added. “We’ll need every advantage when the army of the dead comes.”

“Of course you’re right, my lady,” Lord Royce replied. “Still, they are… remarkable.”

“Indeed,” Sansa agreed. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, my lords, the wind has been at my hair and I should fix it before the queen arrives here. Lady Margaery, if you would be so good as to assist me…”

“It would be my pleasure.”

Sansa regretted that these small fictions were necessary, but they were part of the unspoken bargain of these last few months. By now, some of the other lords had probably guessed at the true nature of her relationship with Margaery, but they had said nothing to her on the subject. Sansa allowed them to pretend that nothing unusual was going on, and they didn’t trouble her with their suspicions to the contrary.

She and Margaery walked down from the battlements together with Brienne trailing close behind them. With her sworn shield at least, there was no pretending. She had been the first person Sansa had told about her love, and Brienne had served as the couple’s steadfast protector ever since.  Out of loyalty, of course, but also understanding. Brienne might not have shared Sansa’s preference for other women but she knew what it was like for a lady who behaved in unexpected ways.

Once they reached Sansa’s chambers, Brienne fell back, allowing her and Margaery their privacy. As soon as the heavy door closed behind them, Margaery took advantage of that gift, placing a soft kiss on Sansa’s lips. In spite of her anxieties, Sansa let out a pleased sigh. In the past few months, she had learned there was no day so heavy that Margaery couldn’t lighten it, at least a little.

Regrettably, this was no time to lose herself in such pleasures. Although she drew Margaery into her arms, it was only for a brief embrace. After a few blissful moments, Sansa pulled back and Margaery said, “You’re more worried about Daenerys than you want to admit to the others.”

Her tone made it clear that this wasn’t a question; they knew one another too well for artifice, and with her lover, Sansa could afford honesty. “I am. You saw the size of her armies. You saw her _dragons._ ”

“Your brother claims that she can be trusted,” Margaery replied, but behind her words, Sansa could hear some of the same uncertainty she felt herself.

“I trust that she’s our ally against the Night King. But afterwards, if we win the war with the dead… The Targaryens killed my grandfather and my uncle and you know how easily alliances can sour when the circumstances that inspired them change.”

Margaery slid behind Sansa, busying herself with her ostensible purpose for being here. She had a deft touch and Sansa enjoyed the feel of those nimble fingers running through her hair. “I do,” Margaery agreed regretfully. “I suppose we’ll have to hope that Daenerys is more reliable than Cersei Lannister.”

The hate in Margaery’s voice when she spoke that name couldn’t be missed. If there was anyone in the world who had as much reason to detest the queen as Sansa, it was her. “That wouldn’t be saying very much,” Sansa told her, bending her head so that Margaery could make a few additional adjustments to her braid. “You must be excited to see your grandmother again at least.”

“I am,” Margaery agreed, although she didn’t sound as joyful at the prospect as Sansa might have thought.

“Except…”

“Except I’m not sure what she’ll make of the two of us.”

That surprised Sansa. “I thought she knew about your affection for women.”

“She does. It’s not what we’ve been doing together that will bother her. It’s my decision to stay with you instead of seeking another husband, that she might not be so understanding of. I suppose I’ll have to make her see that you’re the only one for me now.” Margaery slid Sansa’s braid aside so that she could kiss the back of her neck. “And speaking of marriage, how are you feeling about the prospect of seeing your former husband again?”

Although Margaery couldn’t see her face, Sansa was smiling. “Strangely nostalgic. After all, it was my impending marriage to Tyrion that led you and I to have our fateful discussion about what ladies prefer.”

“So it did,” Margaery agreed, and Sansa could hear her mood lightening as well. “I only hope Tyrion isn’t expecting a joyous reunion when he arrives.”

Sansa shook her head. While her wedding had been a nightmare, Tyrion himself had been far kinder than most would have been in that situation. He knew what their marriage was and what it wasn’t and he never tried to “claim his rights” as a husband, to use the loathsome phrase that men invoked to justify their actions. “He knows me better than that.”

“I did try to tell you he wasn’t so terrible,” Margaery teased.

“And that is why you’re my most trusted councilor,” Sansa laughed back. “As Tyrion is now Daenerys,’ according to my brother.”

“That’s a hopeful sign,” Margaery offered. “There are far worse than him who could have her ear.”

“We’ll know soon enough,” Sansa said, drawing herself up straight. “Come, my love. We had best not keep Queen Daenerys waiting.”

***

Sansa stood as straight as a spear, watching impassively as the courtyard filled up with Daenerys’ soldiers and travelling companions. Although Sansa knew she would have to learn more about all of these people in time, for now her attention was absorbed by just two of them. The first was her brother, looking very much the Northern lord in his thick furs. However much Sansa questioned some of his decisions since he left Winterfell, it was a relief to see him return home alive and well.

And then there was his new queen. Daenerys’ heavy white travelling clothes did nothing to hide her Targaryen beauty, and even without saying a word, her aura of authority was unmistakable. It was an impressive combination but also a dangerous one, and Sansa found herself further on her guard as Jon ran across the courtyard to embrace Bran.

“Look at you,” he said as he kissed their brother on the forehead. “You’re a man now.”

“Almost.”

Sansa had become used to Bran’s monotone, but Jon hadn’t, and she couldn’t avoid a knowing smile when he furrowed his brows in confusion. “Where’s Arya?” he asked her as they embraced.

Sansa had to swallow a laugh. “She’s lurking somewhere around here.”

Jon grinned at that. He had always been the closest of all of them to Arya, more tolerant than Mother and even Father of her peculiarities. Rather than complain about her absence, he stood up straight and turned toward the approaching Daenerys. “Queen Daenerys of House Targaryen,” he declared. “My sister, Sansa Stark, the Lady of Winterfell.”

Daenerys smiled winningly at her. “Thank you for inviting us into your home, Lady Stark. The North is as beautiful as your brother claimed. As are you.”

Sansa paused, wondering what else Jon might have said about her. She supposed the answer would have to wait for another time. “Thank you, your Grace. Winterfell is yours. And may I present Lady Margaery of House Tyrell.”

Margaery’s curtsy was as perfect as one could hope for, especially given the heavy Northern gown she had adopted. “It’s an honor to meet you, your Grace.”

“Lady Margaery? Not ‘queen’?” Daenerys asked, and there was a chill in her voice. “I had heard you were married to the usurper Tommen Baratheon.”

Anger kindled in Sansa like wildfire, but Margaery’s composure never waivered. “I was, your Grace. But ‘lady’ suits me better now. Whatever he might have been, Tommen is dead and House Tyrell has pledged itself to your cause.”

Daenerys’ face softened. “So your grandmother explained to me when she received word that you were alive. And never fear, I have pardoned your house for its past alliance with the Lannisters.”

Sansa misliked Daenerys’ framing of the issue, but instead of questioning it, she simply asked, “And where is Lady Olenna, your Grace? We had heard she was travelling North with you.”

“She is.” Daenerys explained. “Her wheelhouse should be arriving soon enough. She and some of my other councilors decided they would be more comfortable that way than on horseback.”

Before Sansa could respond, Bran suddenly spoke. “We don’t have time for this,” he said, looking straight at Daenerys. “The Night King has your dragon. He’s one of them now. The Wall has fallen. The dead march south.”

***

It wasn’t long before their party had reassembled in Winterfell’s great hall, joined there by a crowd of lords and knights from both the North and Daenerys’ entourage. Among them were so many faces from Sansa’s past that she could hardly sort out her emotions at seeing them all again, but Tyrion, Olenna, and the Hound could wait for later. Between Jon’s return, Daenerys’ arrival, and the news that the dead were drawing near, there were far more important things to address than her feelings.

“They’re afraid,” Margaery whispered to her as everyone made their way to the hall’s long benches.

“I know,” she said softly. _But who do they fear the most?_ she wondered. _The Night King or the dragon queen?_

As everyone else sat, Sansa remained standing, allowing all eyes to come to her before she spoke. “By now you have heard that that our enemy is approaching,” she told them. “But rest assured, we are ready. As soon as I heard about the Wall, I called all our banners to retreat to Winterfell. Lord Umber, when can we expect your people to arrive?”

Ned Umber stepped forward, clearly terrified at being called on to speak in front of such an august company. “We need more horses and wagons, if it please my lady…” He trailed off, trying to figure out whom precisely he should be addressing. “And my lords… And my queen. Sorry.”

Sansa ignored his awkwardness, favoring him with a slight smile. “You’ll have as many as we can spare, my lord. Now hurry back to Last Hearth and bring your people here at once.”

With a bow of his head, Ned returned to the safety of his bench as Jon added, “We need to send ravens to the Night’s Watch as well. There’s no sense manning the castles anymore. We’ll make our stand here at Winterfell.”

“At once, your Grace,” Maester Wolkan replied, but before they could move on to other business, Lyanna Mormont spoke up.

“Your Grace?” she asked, her skepticism unmistakable. “But you’re not, are you?” she continued, rising to her feet. “You left Winterfell a king and came back a… I’m not sure what you are now. A lord? Nothing at all?”

From her seat at the end of the high table, Lady Olenna said, “Hush, child. The adults are speaking.”

Unlike Ned Umber, Lyanna wasn’t frightened in the least by the company she was in. “I speak for House Mormont. We named Jon Snow the King in the North, and we demand to know what he did with the crown we placed on his head.”

Murmurs of agreement came from all corners of the room, and when Sansa looked at Jon, she saw the doubt in his eyes. This was what she had had feared. He wasn’t their father, whose rule in the North had been accepted without question. Jon’s hold over his people was tenuous and it couldn’t be transferred so easily to a foreign queen.

“You did make me your king, my lady,” Jon agreed. “And it was the honor of my life. I’ll always be grateful for the faith you showed in me.” He rose from his chair, now speaking to the entire assembly. “But when I left Winterfell, I told you that we needed to find allies or we would die. I have brought those allies home to fight alongside us. I had a choice: keep my crown or protect the North. I chose the North.”

Sansa’s eyes shifted to Daenerys, and hers, she saw, were fixed on Jon. The rest of the room wasn’t sure where to look. More murmurs passed back and forth as those assembled tried to work out where their allegiances should lie.

Before they could decide, Tyrion rose from his chair. Sansa didn’t need to have spoken with her former husband to tell that he had changed since they last saw one another. The most obvious change was the thick beard now covering his face, but whatever had happened to him went deeper than that. There was a deep grief in Tyrion that Sansa could recognize all too easily.

“If anyone survives the war to come, we’ll have Jon Snow to thank,” he told the crowd. “He risked his life to show us that the threat is real. Thanks to his courage, we have brought with us the greatest army the world has ever seen. We have brought two full-grown dragons. And soon the Lannister army will ride north to join our cause.”

At that last, the room grew even more hostile, and Sansa with them. Daenerys’ presence, though uncomfortable, was a necessity, but the Lannisters were something else entirely. Instinctively, she turned toward Margaery, seeing the fear in her lover’s eyes. Sansa yearned to pull her into her arms, to assure her that she would bathe the North in Lannister blood before she let Cersei harm either of them again.

“I know, our people haven’t been friends in the past” Tyrion continued, trying to turn the growing anger. “But now we must fight together or die.”

Sansa turned to Daenerys, cold fury surging through her. What kind of a deal had the queen made, bringing their enemies into her home? “I know that,” she said icily. “But may I ask how we are meant to feed them, to say nothing of the greatest army the world has ever seen? While I ensured our stores would last through winter, I didn’t account for Dothraki, Unsullied, and two full-grown dragons. What do dragons eat, anyway?”

“Whatever they want,” Daenerys said, and the naked assertion of power in those words brought a chill to Sansa’s heart that all the hearths in the room couldn’t banish. Between Cersei, Daenerys, and the Night King, it would take every ounce of cunning she could muster to make it through the winter without being devoured herself.


	2. Chapter 2

The day was already darkening when Sansa came across her former husband perched on the walkways above Winterfell’s courtyard. Tyrion’s back was turned toward her and he seemed lost in thought, but at the sound of her footsteps, he looked up at once.

“My lady.” On his chest was pinned a replica of the Hand’s badge. It reminded Sansa of those days in King’s Landing when he had done his best to defend her against Joffery’s cruelties. She had been too young and too deep in her grief to see it then, but even if she hadn’t loved him, he hadn’t deserved to have his family’s sins held against him.

“The Lady of Winterfell,” he added. “It has a nice ring to it.”

“So does Hand of the Queen. Depending on the queen, I suppose.”

“It’s been a long time. The last time we spoke was at Joffery’s wedding. A miserable affair all around.”

A small smile crossed Sansa’s face. “It had its moments. My apologies for leaving so abruptly.”

“Yes, it was a bit hard to explain why my wife fled moments after the king’s murder.”

 _To say the least._ Margaery had told her the story of what came next, of Tyrion’s trial and death sentence, followed by an escape from the dungeons that had left his father dead. Some part of Sansa felt responsible and yet she would not apologize for doing what she’d had to.

“We both survived,” was what she settled on. “Plenty of others can’t say as much.”

“No, they can’t.” He looked at her with eyes that seemed perpetually sad. Was it the legacy of those particular misfortunes, she wondered, or some other tragedy that had wounded him so deeply? “I’m glad you did, though. And Lady Margaery as well. Neither of you deserved what Joffery and my sister would’ve done if to you they’d gotten the chance.”

“Joffery got what he deserved,” Sansa said grimly.

Tyrion gave her a small nod. “Many underestimated you, Lady Stark. Most of them are dead now.”

“Most, but not all.” While she didn’t keep track of her revenges in quite the same way as her sister, as long as Cersei Lannister was alive, Sansa knew her war would never be finished.

“Not yet, anyway,” Tyrion agreed, and then added, “I suspect you weren’t thrilled to hear that the Lannister army is marching north. I could tell Margaery wasn’t either.”

“Can you blame her?” Sansa’s tone was harsher now. Anger came easily when Cersei was the topic. “Your sister murdered most of her family. There’s still a price on her head south of the Neck. And mine as well.”

“Of course not. Both of you have every right to be fearful of my sister. No one fears her more than I do, but under the circumstances, we need all the help that we…”

Even as he continued speaking, insight hit Sansa like a crossbow bolt. She’d been so worried about the presence of the Lannister army in the North that she’d forgotten to question whether it was real. “Cersei told you that her army was coming here to fight the dead?” she interjected.

“She did.”

Sansa raised an eyebrow. “And you believed her?”

“She has something to live for now. I believe she wants to survive,” Tyrion said in the voice of a man trying to justify a bad decision it was too late for him to fix.

“I used to think you were the cleverest man alive.”

Sansa felt disappointed as she turned to leave. She’d hoped that Tyrion’s choice to serve Daenerys meant the dragon queen could be trusted, but his judgment clearly left much to be desired. She would, it seemed, need to find more reliable council.

***

Olenna Tyrell seldom showed much emotion aside from her disdain for the various fools unfortunate enough to cross her path, which made it all the more touching when she threw her arms around Margaery, holding her close.

“I was so worried for you, grandmother,” Margaery said, as she returned the embrace. Her grandmother was a slight woman, but there was something solid about her presence all the same. “When I heard about Highgarden, I feared the worst.”

“Those beasts,” Olenna spat, her contempt never far from the surface. “I tried to warn your father about getting into bed with the lion, but when did he ever listen to me?”

“Father’s gone now,” Margaery said gently. “I think we can forgive him whatever mistakes he might have made.”

“The price was far too high,” Olenna conceded, settling down into a wooden chair topped by carved direwolves. With so many distinguished guests, space in Winterfell was scarce, so Sansa had given them the use of her solar for their reunion while she saw to other business.

Margaery took the seat beside her grandmother, fighting back a shiver that had nothing to do with the winter. Until the day she died, she would never forget the sudden heat erupting behind her as she fled the Sept of Baelor, nor the horrifying flash of green fire that had consumed her father and brother along with hundreds of others.

“Yes it was,” she agreed, her voice barely above a whisper. “For him and for Loras.”

Olenna said nothing more, instead taking a sip of the mulled wine Sansa had left for them. From the way her face tightened, Margaery guessed she wasn’t enamored of the taste. “It’s not Arbor Gold, I know,” Margaery told her. “But you get used to it eventually.”

“With any luck, we won’t be here that long. Assuming this ridiculous business with the dead gets sorted out soon, we’ll be marching south with Daenerys. And if it doesn’t, at least I imagine this inferior wine won’t bother us anymore.”

Margaery took her own drink of inferior wine, deciding how best to respond. It wasn’t the right time to explain that she had no intention of leaving Winterfell after the war, and so she settled on, “It’s hardly as bad as all that.”

Olenna shrugged. “It was a clever move coming up here, I’ll admit. Cersei had her agents scouring the Reach once she realized you’d escaped her trap.”

“I never would’ve made it back to Highgarden alive,” Margaery agreed. “And I knew that Sansa had no love for the Lannisters.”

“Yes, and you two always did get along well. It certainly seems she’s made you as comfortable at Winterfell as can be managed considering the weather.”

Margaery did her best to avoid blushing. Her grandmother was far too perceptive when it came to these matters. “Sansa has been lovely to me.”

Olenna took another sip of mulled wine, seeming to put aside her dislike of the flavor in pursuit of its warmth. Her penetrating gaze made Margaery feel like a little girl who’d been caught stealing cakes earmarked for a feast. “You seem quite fond of her.”

Now Margaery knew she was turning red. “I am.”

“And is she equally _fond_ of you?”

Margaery brought her cup up in an effort to cover at least part of her face. “She is.”

As if the Gods had decided on the most awkward possible moment for an interruption, the door to the solar opened, revealing the very woman they were discussing. “So good to see you again, dear,” Olenna told her. “We were just discussing your fondness for my granddaughter.”

Sansa’s did her best to hide her reaction, but Margaery could see her eyes widen slightly. “She guessed,” Margaery admitted. “I’ve never been any good at keeping secrets from her.”

“Oh, never fear,” Olenna told Sansa. “I’m hardly going to judge you for finding the company of men tiresome. In my younger days, I often wished I felt the same way, and you’ve had rather a worse experience of them than I did.”

“I appreciate your understanding,” Sansa said, visibly struggling with her words. “Even if that’s not quite how I’d explain my feelings.”

“Well, whatever the details, I hope you enjoy each other’s company,” Olenna said briskly. “You’ve been through enough, Gods know. Besides, we have more important matters to discuss.”

“Certainly,” Sansa blurted out eagerly. “What did you want to talk about?”

“The arrival of this Lannister army, for one thing. Even if they are here to fight beside us, we have to assume that Cersei will have some sort of mischief planned for after the battle is won.”

“Only if her soldiers are really coming here,” Sansa said. “I have my doubts. Tyrion was a fool to take Cersei’s word that she’d help us.”

Margaery wasn’t certain whether to be alarmed or relieved but either way, she was glad to feel Sansa’s hand on her shoulder, reminding her that whatever came next they’d face it together.

“She really is the worst,” Olenna opined. “It does simplify matters, I suppose. For now, we only have to worry about being torn to pieces by dead men, rather than stabbed in our beds by Lannister soldiers.”

“Isn’t that a cheerful thought, grandmother?” Margaery said. “I have to believe we can win this war even without the Lannisters. Daenerys did bring quite the impressive army with her.”

“Yes, she did,” Sansa agreed. “And just what do you make of our new queen, Lady Olenna? You know her far better than I do.”

Olenna smiled. “A bold question, my dear. Back in King’s Landing, you could scarcely open your mouth about Joffery without stammering.”

As if proving her grandmother’s point, Sansa kept her eyes locked on Olenna when she answered. “I’m just trying to determine if she’s going to be good for the North.”

Olenna took a long sip of her win, draining the cup to the dregs before replying. “When I was your age, my father planned to marry me off to some Targaryen prince. He was a pinched little weasel, good for nothing but prancing about in fancy silks and trying to impress girls with his ridiculous hair.”

Sansa gave her a quizzical look before Olenna added, “Daenerys, on the other hand, is a true dragon. Whether that’s a good thing or not is a harder question.”

“If you’re not sure about Daenerys, why did you decide to ally your house with her?” Sansa asked.

“After what happened at the Sept of Baelor, there was nothing left for me but revenge against Cersei. Working with a dragon seemed a suitable way to obtain it.” She reached out to pat Margaery on the hand.   “Now, House Tyrell has a future again.”

Although Margaery appreciated Olenna’s faith in her, it wasn’t what she needed under the circumstances. “I do have cousins,” she pointed out.

Olenna’s response was a derisive snort. “None of whom are worthy of inheriting Highgarden. It’s you that our house needs.”

Margaery felt guilt twisting deeper into her guts. The thought of leaving Sansa was unbearable, but to abandon her family in its darkest hour… Sansa seemed to sense her discomfort, because her grip on Margaery’s shoulder tightened. “Margaery is well aware of what you expect of her.”

The two women’s eyes met and Margaery could feel the tension between them swell. She tried to think of something to say to calm the waters, but before the right words came to mind, the door behind them opened.

“Maester Wolkan,” Sansa said. “What do you need?”

He handed a small scroll to her. “This just came from Deepwood Motte, my lady.”

Sansa broke the seal and as she read the message, Margaery saw her face drop. “I’m sorry,” she told Margaery, “I have to go. We’ll finish this discussion another time.”

***

A frown remained plastered on Sansa’s face as she looked down once more at the scroll in her hand. She couldn’t say that its message surprised her, but it was a disappointment all the same.

A knock on the study door drew her attention and when she said, “Come in,” it opened to reveal a tired-looking Jon.

“You said you needed to speak to me?”

“I did. We just received a raven from Lord Glover. He wishes us good fortune in the upcoming battle, but he’s going to be staying in Deepwood Motte with his men.”

Jon snarled as he dashed one of his gloves onto the desk. “House Glover will stand behind House Stark, as we have for a thousand years. Isn’t that what he said?”

Sansa stood before she responded, studying her brother carefully. Jon had seen his fair share of the world’s horrors and yet he still held onto the hope that it would be fair. She wasn’t sure whether to envy him for his optimism or pity him. “’I will stand behind Jon Snow,’ was what he said. The King in the North. Not Daenerys Targaryen.”

“I told you we needed allies,” Jon protested.

“You never told me you were going to abandon your crown,” she countered.

Sansa had seen the look that spread across his face before. It was the same one he got every time he was attacked for a decision he felt he’d been pushed into making in the first place. “I never wanted a crown. All I was trying to do was protect the North. And I brought two armies home with me to do just that.”

“Along with a foreign queen to rule us.”

Jon huffed defensively. “I’m not the only one bringing outsiders to Winterfell. How exactly did Joffery’s queen become your closest advisor?”

Sansa bristled at that description of Margaery but she held her tongue. This was hardly the time to explain to Jon just how close the two of them were. “That’s different,” she snapped back. “Margaery is one woman. She doesn’t have those two armies you’re so proud of behind her and she doesn’t want us to bend the knee to her.”

“Do you think we can beat the Night King without Daenerys’ armies? Without her dragons? I fought him, Sansa. I fought him and I lost. You want to worry about who holds what title? I’m telling you it doesn’t matter. Without her, we don’t stand a chance.”

For a long span of seconds, neither of them spoke. As frustrated as Sansa was, there was a logic to what Jon was saying, and in any event, she didn’t want to fight with her brother any further when there were enemies all around them. Jon seemed to come to the same conclusion, because when he spoke, his voice had softened. “Don’t you have any faith in me at all?”

“You know I do, Jon. We wouldn’t have gotten this far without you. It’s only…”

“She’ll be a good queen,” he insisted. “For all of us. She’s not her father.”

Before she could think better of it, Sansa lashed out once more. ““No, she’s much prettier. Did you bend the knee to save the North, or because you love her?”

Instead of replying, Jon closed his eyes and Sansa realized that even he didn’t know the answer. _But do I?_ she suddenly wondered. Sansa couldn’t imagine going back to the lonely, frigid place she’d been living in before Margaery reentered her life, but was her need making her selfish? Was she asking Margaery to choose her over duty to her family? _Am I the same kind of fool I’m accusing Jon of being?_


	3. Chapter 3

Night had long since enveloped Winterfell by the time Sansa returned to her chambers. Mindful of the hour, she slipped inside as quietly she could, padding softly across the carpeted floors as she made her way to bed. Margaery had left a single candle burning in their bedroom and in its flickering light, Sansa could see her lover nestled snug beneath the furs. On any other night, she would’ve simply relished the sight, but now it made her heart ach.

 _She’s so beautiful,_ Sansa thought as she loosened her dress. _Can I really ask her to stay here? Doesn’t she deserve to be the Lady of Highgarden, with the warm sun of the south on her skin?_

Once she was down to her shift, Sansa crawled beneath the furs as well, but before she could settle in, Margaery stirred. “Sansa?” she murmured, still half asleep.

She leaned over, placing a soft kiss on Margaery’s cheek. “I’m sorry it’s so late. It’s just…”

“I know.”

Margaery rolled over for another kiss, this one on the lips, and Sansa melted into it. Between the dead, Daenerys, and now Olenna, the few months of peace they had enjoyed after Littlefinger’s execution seemed to be vanishing like a pleasant dream in the morning light and all Sansa could do was cling to this moment as hard as she could.

The kiss ended but Margaery stayed in her arms, nestling against Sansa’s chest. “The raven. What was it about?”

“In the morning.” Sansa was too tired for more politics that night, and thankfully, a soft sigh signaled Margaery’s agreement. “I love you,” Sansa whispered, tugging the furs up around them.

“Love you too,” Margaery breathed in response. It wasn’t long before she was falling back into sleep and Sansa laid her head against the pillows, hoping to follow as soon as possible. None of her problems could be solved that night. All she could do was try to rest and hope that the next day, things would seem clearer.

***

Instead, the morning only brought fresh complications. Somewhere during the previous night, Jaime Lannister had arrived at Winterfell and now he stood in the center of the great hall, awaiting the judgment of the assembled lords and ladies. It reminded Sansa of the day Littlefinger had died, but unlike then, she didn’t hold court alone. Instead, she was joined at the high bench by Tyrion, Lady Olenna, her brother, and Daenerys, all of them focused on one infamous knight.

In the ragged, bearded man in front of her Sansa could see little trace of the arrogant Kingsguard who had rode into Winterfell by King Robert’s side so long ago. Like his brother, he seemed not only older but sadder, but Sansa pushed such thoughts aside. Jaime might have suffered since then, but that didn’t erase who he was and what he had done.

She wasn’t the only one who felt that way. It was Daenerys who spoke first, her eyes cold fire and her voice filled with menace. “When I was a child, my brother used to tell me a bedtime story. About the man who murdered our father. Who stabbed him in the back and cut his throat. Who sat down on the Iron Throne and watched as his blood poured onto the floor.”

Jaime said nothing, neither seeming to glory in the reminder of his most famous deed nor to feel shame at it.

“He told me other stories as well,” Daenerys continued. “About all the things we would do to that man once we took back the Seven Kingdoms.” She paused, letting the threat of vengeance hang in the air before pivoting to the present day. “Your sister pledged to send her army north.”

“She did,” Jaime conceded.

“I don’t see an army. I see one man with one hand. It appears your sister lied to me.”

From her seat on one of the front benches, Margaery shot Sansa a knowing smile, but under the circumstances, she could take little pleasure in being right.

“She lied to me as well. Cersei never had any intention of sending her army north. If we defeat the dead, she plans to be waiting for the survivors with Euron Greyjoy’s fleet and the Golden Company from Essos. 20,000 fresh soldiers, bought and paid for.”

“If your sister is in such a strong position, then why exactly are you here?” Olenna demanded.

“Because I promised to fight for the living. I intend to keep that promise.”

Tyrion rose, interposing himself between Daenerys and Jaime, physically as well as symbolically. “Your Grace, I know my brother.”

“Like you knew your sister? You assured me that we could trust her word in this matter.”

“He came here alone, knowing full well how he’d be received,” Tyrion pleaded, a desperate edge to his words. “Why would he do that, if he weren’t telling the truth?”

Daenerys was unmoved.  “Perhaps he trusts his little brother to defend him. Right up until the moment he slits my throat.”

Though Sansa felt some sympathy for Tyrion’s situation, for once she had to agree with Daenerys. “You’re right, your Grace,” she added solemnly. “We can’t trust him. He attacked my father in the streets of King’s Landing. He tried to destroy my house and my family, the same as he did yours.”

Jaime was defiant. “You want me to apologize for that, Lady Stark? I won’t. We were at war. Everything I did, I did for _my_ house and family. If I had to, I’d do it all again.”

Without warning, Bran spoke. “The things we do for love.”

Sansa turned in her brother’s direction. She wasn’t sure quite what he meant by that, but it seemed Jaime did, because he was starring at Bran as well, visibly shaken. Daenerys didn’t seem to have noticed, however, because she pressed ahead with her questioning. “So then why have you abandoned that house and family now?”

“Because this goes beyond loyalty,” Jaime said. “This is about survival.”

“The survival of House Lannister, I suspect,” Olenna replied dryly. “You have every reason to make sure that if we win this war, we do it with as few survivors as possible.”

Murmurs of agreement filled the hall but before anyone could accuse Jaime further, Brienne rose from her seat on the benches. Sansa knew how little her sworn shield liked speaking in situations like these, but when she did, her voice was clear and strong.

“You don’t know me well, your Grace. But I know Ser Jamie. He is a man of honor. When we first met, I was his captor, but after we were taken prisoner and the men holding us tried to force themselves on me, Ser Jamie defended me. He lost his hand because of it.”

She turned to Sansa. “Without him, my lady, you would not be alive. He armed me, armored me, and sent me to find you and bring you home. Not because he had anything to gain by doing so, but because he had sworn an oath to your mother.”

Sansa’s mouth opened, but no words would come out. At the worst moment of her life Brienne had saved her from torment and death and to hear that it was Jaime Lannister who had sent her… Sansa knew Jaime had given Brienne the sword she now carried, but she had never considered his role in her rescue beyond that. He head dipped and finally, softly, she asked, “You vouch for him?”

There was no hesitation in Brienne. “I do.”

“And you would fight beside him?”

“I would.”

Sansa took a deep breath. This was sure to cause trouble with Daenerys, but she owed Brienne –and perhaps even Jaime -too much to deny this favor. “I trust you with my life, Brienne. If you trust Ser Jaime with yours, we should let him stay.”

Daenerys’ cold certainty seemed to waiver, because she turned to Jon and asked, “What does the Warden of the North have to say on this?”

“I only met Ser Jaime once,” he told her. “So I’m prepared to rely on my sister and Lord Tyrion’s judgment. Besides, we’ll need every man we can get.”

For a moment, silence reigned. Sansa could tell that Daenerys didn’t want to spare Jaime, but she was savvy enough to read the mood of the hall. At last she said, “Very well,” nodding slightly toward Grey Worm and the commander of the Unsullied stepped forward, handing Jaime back his sword.

“Thank you, your Grace,” Jaime told her, but Daenerys didn’t deign to reply. Without another word, she strode from the hall with Jon close behind.

As most of the other lords and ladies cleared out of the room as well, Olenna turned toward Sansa. “Well, that was unexpected. I hardly thought you’d be the one to save the Kingslayer’s life.”

“Neither did I,” she admitted. “But I owe Brienne a great debt and it seems she owed Ser Jaime one.”

“You realize she’s in love with him,” Margaery said as she walked up to join Sansa and Olenna at the high bench.

Sansa’s forehead wrinkled in confusion. “Brienne? With Jamie Lannister?”

“Why not?” Olenna offered. “He’s handsome enough, even with that ridiculous beard.”

“Oh, I think the beard suits him,” Margaery opined while Sansa’s head continued to spin.

Before she could come up with anything to say, Brienne herself came up beside them. “Thank you, my lady,” she said to Sansa. “I know it was asking a great deal for you to trust Ser Jamie, especially given her Grace’s feelings about him.”

Now that Margaery had put the idea in her head, Sansa couldn’t miss the way Brienne’s voice lingered on Jaime’s name. It was a strange to imagine Brienne in love with a Lannister but no stranger, Sansa supposed, than her brother loving the daughter of the king their father had helped to overthrow.

 _Or me, falling in love with another lady instead of some noble knight._ _We do not choose these things; rather, it seems that they choose us._

***

“So, do I get to find out what this secret meeting is about now?” Sansa asked. She had arrived at her study for a rendezvous to find Margaery waiting with a wooden crate at her feet and a sly smile on her face.

Margaery dragged the crate out from beneath the table. “My grandmother brought me something special and I thought we might share it.”

When she pulled back the lid, Sansa’s mouth watered at once. Inside were several dozen peaches, packed in ice and looking all the more delicious for their rarity. “From the Reach,” Margaery added. “She knew I’d be missing them in the North.”

Each of them picked out a peach before closing the crate back up, and at the first bite, Sansa grinned. She had few pleasant memories of her time at court, but southern fruit was one of them. “Delicious.”

“Good.” Margaery reached across the table, rubbing Sansa’s hand affectionately. “I thought you needed a little happiness today.”

“You were right. About that, and other things as well.”

“I usually am,” Margaery said with a playful smile. “But what other thing were you speaking of this time?”

“Brienne’s feelings for Ser Jaime. I wonder that I didn’t see it before.”

“And I wonder if Brienne’s seen it yet,” Margaery quipped. “I can tell she doesn’t have much experience in these matters.” She took a bite of her peach and then added, “Rather like a girl I once met in King’s Landing.”

Sansa laughed warmly. “Well then maybe she could use some of your council. That girl in King’s Landing certainly did.” She shrugged. “It’s just strange, thinking of _Brienne_ in that way. She never seemed interested in such things.”

“People can surprise you. In fact…” Margaery ran her tongue over her lips, gathering up the peach juice there while she let the anticipation build. “I wager that’s not the most surprising thing you’ll hear today.”

“Really?” Sansa licked her fingers clean, using the time to study Margaery’s face. She suspected this was a trap, but she couldn’t stop herself from saying, “All right, then. Try me.”

“Brienne isn’t the only one with a crush. Your sister…”

As soon as she heard those two words, Sansa knew she was beaten. “Arya?! On who?”

“The new blacksmith, Gendry. Apparently she’s been spending time down in the smithy, and they seem to be quite friendly with one another.”

Sansa shook her head and laughed. It was unbelievable, but she knew better than to doubt Margaery’s skill at uncovering such information. “Arya always did enjoy the company of the common folk.”

“Maybe not so common in this case. According to my grandmother, Gendry is the bastard son of King Robert.”

That only made Sansa laugh harder. “Our fathers did want to make a match between their children. Did you know what they’ve…” she didn’t even know how to finish the question; it was all too funny.

“Not yet. But I shall make inquiries.” Margery paused to suck the remaining juices off of her fingers in the most wicked way. “At least after I collect my winnings from you.”

“And just what did you have in mind for a prize?” Sansa asked expectantly. Gods, it felt so good to banter like this, to pretend for even a few minutes that the whole world wasn’t planning on trying to kill them or tear them apart. Right now, all that was real were her and Margaery, and the little bit of happiness they had found together.

But in winter, such peace never lasted. Before Margaery could riposte, the door to the study opened, revealing Daenerys Targaryen. The queen entered the room alone, her Unsullied guards remaining outside as Sansa and Margaery rose to greet her. “Lady Margaery,” she said, “I was hoping that Sansa and I could speak alone.”

When Margaery looked over at her, Sansa gave her lover a slight nod. “Certainly. We can finish our conversation later.”

Margaery’s reply was to grin in a way that suggested they most certainly would before gathering up her crate and heading to the door. Once the Unsullied had closed it behind her, Daenerys turned to Sansa. “You and Lady Margaery seem to be very close.”

It was safer not to let Daenerys know quite how close and so Sansa said, “We were both engaged to Joffery, your Grace.   Our mutual loathing of him gave us something in common.”

That earned her a small smile. “Understandable, from what I’ve been told. But it wasn’t Margaery that I wanted to speak about. I thought you and I were on the verge of agreement regarding Ser Jamie.”

Sansa’s back straightened, her arms interlacing behind her back. “We were. But Brienne has been loyal to me. Always. If she’s prepared to put her faith in Jaime, I have to respect that.” It was an opinion she still held even after hearing Margaery’s insight; no matter her feelings for Jaime, Brienne didn’t trust easily and wouldn’t ask Sansa to accept anyone who could hurt her.

“I wish I could have that kind of faith in my advisors,” Daenerys said with a shake of her head and Sansa knew at once who the queen was talking about.

“Tyrion is a good man. He was never anything but decent towards me, even when it cost him.”

Daenerys stepped closer to her. It was hard not to be cowed by the sheer force of her personality and Sansa felt a twinge of pity for Tyrion when Daenerys said, “I didn’t ask him to be my Hand simply because he was good. I asked him to be my Hand because he was good and intelligent and ruthless when he had to be. Or so I thought. He never should have trusted Cersei.”

“You never should have either.”

“Perhaps not,” Daenerys said, non-committal. “Certainly that wasn’t my first inclination, but I thought Tyrion knew his sister.”

“I’m sure he does. But families are complicated.”

“Ours certainly have been.” Daenerys gestured toward the chairs and they sat, facing one another across the table. Even up close, it was hard to get a read on Daenerys; like Sansa, she had clearly learned to keep her emotions under tight control.

“We have other things in common,” the queen continued. “We’ve both known what it means to lead people who aren’t inclined to accept a woman’s rule and we’ve both done a damn good job of it, from what I can tell. And yet I can’t help but feel we’re at odds with one another. Is that because of your brother?”

Sansa had to be careful how she proceeded here. “He loves you, you know.”

The knowing smile on Daenerys’ face suggested that she did. “And that bothers you?”

“Men do stupid things for the women they love.   They’re easily manipulated by them.”

Daenerys sat back in her chair, sounding more pensive than usual. “All my life, I’ve had one goal: the Seven Kingdoms. Taking them back from the people who destroyed my family and almost destroyed yours. That was my brother’s war until the day he died and then it became mine. Until I met Jon. Now I’m here, half a world away, fighting his war instead. Tell me, Lady Sansa, who is manipulating whom?”

There was truth in Daenerys’ words. Love could make fools of women as well as men and unless Sansa missed her guess, the queen shared Jon’s feelings. Hopefully, that counted for something. “I do appreciate you being here, your Grace,” she offered. “And I should have said as much the moment you arrived at Winterfell. That was my mistake.”

She was pleasantly surprised when Daenerys reached across the table, clasping Sansa’s hand in her own. “I’m here because I love your brother and I trust him and I know he’s true to his word. He’s the second man in my life I can say that about.”

“Who was the first?”

Daenerys kept a straight face long enough to say, “Someone taller,” but then they both laughed. Yet as amusing as the quip might have been, it didn’t answer the fundamental question dividing them. Nor did Daenerys’ love for her brother, sincere though it might have been.

“I’m happy for both of you. Truly. But I still wonder what happens after this? We defeat the dead, we destroy Cersei… What comes next?”

“I claim the Iron Throne,” Daenerys said, the hard certainty of a Targaryen queen creeping back into her voice.

“And what about the North? My brother Robb died fighting for its freedom, and afterward, it was taken from us. Jon and I took it back and we swore we’d never bow to anyone else again. He may feel differently now, but most of the North doesn’t. What do I say to them?”

Whatever warmth had kindled in Daenerys disappeared at once. She pulled her hand back and her eyes were hard and unyielding as they fixed on Sansa. “I told you I came back to Westeros to rule the Seven Kingdoms. Six is not seven.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my read on the source of the conflict between Sansa and Daenerys in the show as well. It's not about jealousy or pettiness, but whether or not the North gets to be independent.


	4. Chapter 4

“And what did you say after that?” Margaery asked, unable to hide her apprehension. She understood Sansa’s concerns about Daenerys, but that didn’t mean it had been a good idea to challenge the queen so directly. Circumspection was one of the most important lessons her grandmother had taught her; better to play along until the right moment than pick a fight at the wrong one, no matter how satisfying it felt.

“Nothing,” Sansa admitted. “Maester Wolkan interrupted us first. Theon has come back to Winterfell.”

From the way Sansa said the name, Margaery could tell it was a reunion that meant a great deal to her, but she didn’t know any details as to why. “Theon Greyjoy?” she asked. “I know he was fostered at Winterfell, but I heard that he’d betrayed your brother Robb during the war…”

“It’s complicated.”

“Tell me.”

Sansa sat down on their bed and Margaery joined her, wrapping an arm around her lover’s back. She had faced her own share of suffering over the last year, but when she reflected on everything Sansa had been through, it was staggering. Every time Margaery thought she knew the whole of it, some new, dreadful detail would emerge.

“You’re right that Theon betrayed my family. He captured Winterfell for the Greyjoys and killed a lot of people. But then Boltons captured him. Ramsay...” Margaery felt a shudder go through Sansa when she said that name. “He hurt Theon. Worse than me, even. By the time I arrived, there was almost nothing left of him.”

Sansa took a deep breath before continuing. “He came back though. For me. He helped me to escape, but after Brienne killed Ramsay’s men, he left us to return to the Iron Islands. That was the last time I saw him before today.”

“So what has he been doing since then?”

Sansa smiled slightly. “That’s another complicated story. The simplest version is that he and his sister Yara have been working with Daenerys. She’s going to retake the Iron Islands from their uncle Euron, but he came here to defend Winterfell. Even though he’s not a Stark, it’s his home too.”

“Complicated indeed,” Margaery agreed. “But it sounds like he’s where he’s supposed to be.”

“He is.” Sansa ran her fingers through Margaery’s hair, clearly hesitant to say what was on her mind, but eventually she overcame her reluctance. “Margaery, before the fighting starts, I want you to go down to the crypts. It’ll be the safest place in the castle if the dead make it over the walls.”

“I know that,” Margaery conceded. “And I’m no knight. But neither are you, so tell me that you’re coming too and I won’t complain.”

Sansa shook her head. “I can’t, my love. I’m sorry, but I can’t.”

“Why not, Sansa?”

“Because I’m the Lady of Winterfell. Even if I can’t fight, I need be out on the walls where my soldiers can see me.”

“Then I’m going to be up there with you. I can’t leave you to face this battle alone. Not after everything you’ve done for me.”

Tears began welling up in Sansa’s eyes and her voice shook when she replied. “What I’ve done for you… Margaery, you’ve made me happy in ways I didn’t believe were possible anymore. You mean everything to me. And that’s why I need you to go to the crypts. Please. I know it’s not what you want, but please. I won’t be able to think about anything else if I don’t know you’re safe.”

The pain and worry in her voice were heartbreaking, and in the face of them, Margaery could do nothing but nod her assent. “I’ll go then. For you.”

“Thank you.” Sansa cupped her face in her hands and just starred, those lovely, sad green eyes seeming to drink in every inch of Margaery. “Make love to me tonight,” she said softly. “I need to forget what’s coming, just for a little while.”

Margaery’s response was to lean for a long, gentle kiss. She could taste Sansa’s fear on her lips, and when their cheeks brushed together, Margaery felt wetness there. Drawing back, she kissed the tears away, and whispered, “Then let’s forget together.”

They undressed swiftly, discarding their shifts and small clothes with practiced efficiency. There was too little time to waste, but once they were naked, Margaery paused anyway. Their first night together, Sansa had been so nervous about being seen. She had been ashamed of the scars Ramsay had left on her body, but to Margaery, she was more beautiful than any painting, and the knowledge that this might be their last time together made her seem all the lovelier.

Sansa seemed enraptured as well, her fingers brushing lightly down Margaery’s neck and along her shoulder blade. “You’re all mine,” she breathed reverently. “You want to be mine, don’t you?”

She took Sansa’s hand in hers and pressed her lips against the palm. “Of course I do. You know that.”

“I do. It’s only…” Sansa began, and when Margaery saw a flicker of doubt in her eyes, she understood.

“About what my grandmother said…”

“Not tonight.” Sansa pulled her close, holding Margaery tight against her. “Not when none of it may even matter. Just be with me now.”

“Always.”

Another thing that had changed since their first time was Sansa’s skill. Even as she laid Margaery down on the bed, her hands were running across her skin, tracing the paths she had learned so well. One of them cupped Margaery’s breast while the other ran up her leg with tantalizing slowness.

“Gods, I love the way you touch me.”

There was a small hitch in Sansa’s throat as she replied, “You taught me how.”

“Show me.”

Sansa’s hand circled her rear and Margaery lifted herself up, letting her lover’s touches enfold her. Her kisses were little sparks, making Margaery’s skin tingle everywhere her lips touched. Margaery replied by kissing Sansa where she could, but mostly she was content to relinquish control of the moment. Sansa sometimes liked to take the lead and tonight, when so much was beyond her power to influence, Margaery sensed she would appreciate that more than usual.

It wasn’t long before Sansa’s hand was sliding up the inside of her thigh, and Margaery spread her legs in response. “I’m yours. In whatever way my lady wants me.”

The shiver of anticipation that ran through Sansa was unmistakable. “You’re mine,” she said, her eyes aflame. She slid a hand between Margaery’s legs, lightly cupping her sex. “Mine to pleasure.”

“Oh Gods, yes.” Margaery was pleading with her gaze now, needing Sansa to do just that. Her lover’s gentle touches were bliss and torture all at once, and Margaery was on the verge of openly begging for more when Sansa teased her entrance with a single finger.

“Mine to claim,” she continued, kneeling above Margaery like a perfect vision of loveliness. Her finger slid inside easily and Margaery clenched around it, craving that feeling of fullness even if she knew it wouldn’t be enough.

Sansa knew it too. As soon as she confirmed Margaery was wet enough, she added a second one and Margaery whimpered at the stretch, rocking shamelessly against Sansa’s hand. With her there was no need for artifice. This was no arranged marriage to a king Margaery had to manipulate; this was the person she loved and who loved her in turn.

“Yours.”

Sansa’s other hand tugged lightly on her hair and Margaery tipped back, exposing her neck to more heated kisses. All she could do was cling tight, arms wrapped around Sansa’s back, hips bucking up desperately. In that moment, she was Sansa’s, completely and unreservedly, wanting nothing more than to be taken by her lover.

It was a hunger Sansa clearly shared. Her teeth left a mark at the base of Margaery’s neck before moving on to her breasts, alternately between nipping at the soft skin and sucking on her nipples. All the while, she was thrusting ever deeper, making Margaery moan with every stroke. She loved how confident Sansa had become, the way she not only knew all of Margaery’s favorite spots but knew that she knew them.

“That’s it,” Sansa said, her voice a perfect mixture of the affectionate lover and the formidable Lady of Winterfell. “Give yourself to me.”

Margaery couldn’t reply with words. Sansa’s ministrations had melted away everything but her pleasure, leaving her unable to do aught but feel. The best she managed was an incomplete moan of Sansa’s name, followed by cries that were even less coherent. She whimpered and thrashed, and when Sansa’s fingers curled inside her and pressed down hard, she fell apart completely. Her back arched as she cried out with her first climax, a wave of pleasure that made everything else in the world go away.

The second crashed down moments later when Sansa’s thumb found her clit, drawing tight circles across the head. The combination was so intense that Margaery had to squeeze her eyes shut and just focus on the beauty of what she was feeling. After that, she wasn’t sure what Sansa did next, only that it sent more bliss through Margaery, her body surging again and again until she was left sweaty and limp on the bed.

Only then did she open her eyes, revealing Sansa’s smile beaming down at her. “My lady,” Sansa said lovingly.

“Your rose,” Margaery murmured back.

Before Sansa could respond, Margaery pulled her into a deep kiss, caressing her back as their tongues brushed together. As delicious as Sansa had just made her feel, it was time to repay the favor. Margaery eased her lover down onto the bed, running her hand through those long strands of red hair that she had adored from the first time she saw them back in King’s Landing.

“Have I ever told you how gorgeous you are, Sansa of House Stark?”

“Once or twice, perhaps.”

Margaery brushed her fingers across a stiff nipple, relishing the way Sansa’s mouth fell open when she rolled it between her thumb and forefinger. “Well, it doesn’t stop being true.”

She enjoyed the way Sansa’s pale cheeks blushed red, and she liked the gasps she elicited as she kissed her way downward even better. Sansa had not only gotten more skilled at giving pleasure during their time together, she’d become more comfortable receiving it as well. There was no tensing or discomfort when Margaery ran her tongue across her breasts and down her stomach, just the loveliest moans imaginable.

Sansa’s fingers tangled in her hair, urging her toward legs that were already spread in invitation. Margaery was all too happy to accept. She could smell how thick Sansa’s arousal was, a flavor she couldn’t wait for another taste of. Wriggling lower, she ran her tongue along Sansa’s inner thigh, just slowly enough for Margaery to feel a tremor of anticipation run through Sansa.

“I’m almost there, my love.”

Her hands looped under Sansa’s rear before she ran the tip of her tongue over her entrance. Sansa gasped and Margaery dipped inside her a few times before moving up to find her clit. She loved every part of this: the tart taste of Sansa’s need, the upward arch of her back, the way she would grab desperately at Margaery’s hair ever time a new favorite spot was found.

As Sansa’s pleasure built, Margaery brought a single finger up to her entrance. That was another thing her lover had become more comfortable with over time; even if Sansa didn’t like being taken quite the way Margaery did, she had learned the pleasure penetration could bring. When Margaery slid into her, her cry was one of pleasure, her arousal spilling down onto the furs beneath them.

Once she was sure Sansa was comfortable, Margaery redoubled her efforts, licking Sansa’s clit while caressing her inner walls. It was a combination Sansa could seldom hold out against for long, and tonight was no exception. Before long, she was thrashing and crying out above Margaery, her peak clearly close at hand.

Margaery let her linger on the brink for a little while before drawing Sansa’s clit between her lips and sucked. After that, it only required a bit of pressure to bring on the end. Seconds later, Sansa went stiff and then her thighs were squeezing down, her wetness covering Margaery’s chin.

Her pleasure went on and on, and Margaery made certain to get all of it, licking and stroking until she had drawn out all that Sansa had to give. Only then did she lift up her head to admire the fruits of her labor. Sansa was laying back on the bed wearing a blissful grin, all of the tension seemingly drained from her body.

A contented purr was the only sound she made, but her eyes beckoned Margaery closer. She was warm when Margaery fell into her arms, smelling of sweat and sex, a combination that Margaery adored. She placed light kisses on Sansa’s breasts, relaxing while her lover regained her bearings. When Sansa finally did speak, it was preceded by a long, pleased sigh. “Somehow, you keep getting better at that.”

Margaery looked up at her and grinned. “Practice. That and a lovely woman to encourage me.”

Sansa’s arms wrapped around her. “It all seems so far away when I’m with you. The bickering, the dead, all of it.”

“I wish they would stay away forever,” Margaery told her. “But at least we have a little more time before the war arrives.”

“We do,” Sansa agreed, her embrace tightening. As frightened as Margaery was by what was coming, being with Sansa made her believe that somehow, some way, they would survive it.


	5. Chapter 5

“Before the dawn?” Margaery repeated the words incredulously, hoping that somehow Arya’s answer would be different the second time. “Are you certain?”

“That’s what the big wildling told Jon.”

She sounded impressively blasé for someone delivering the news that they both might be dead in a matter of hours. Margaery on the other hand shivered before she asked “Does Sansa know?”

“Jon said he’d tell her. There’s going to be a war council soon.”

Margaery took a deep breath, managing to re-gather at least some of her composure. “Thank you for letting me know. I’m just not sure what I should be doing while I wait for the end of the world.”

“Me neither.” Arya leaned against the railing, looking down into Winterfell’s courtyard where soldiers were bustling about with clear urgency, erecting barricades and setting up quivers of arrows tipped with dragonglass. “I’m no soldier.”

Margaery’s eyes widened slightly. “You? You’re an amazing fighter. Sansa told me you even got the best of Brienne.”

“But I’m not a soldier. I don’t know anything about battle strategy or troop deployments or anything like that. What I learned was something else entirely.”

“Whatever it was, I’m glad you learned it. I wouldn’t be alive without your skills.”

For a change, Arya’s smile wasn’t cocky or dangerous but genuinely friendly “And I’m glad you came to Winterfell. You actually make Sansa happy. That’s not so easy after what she’s been through.”

“She makes me happy as well.” Margaery gave Arya a playfully look. “And what about you, Lady Stark? What makes you happy after all that you’ve been through?”

“My sister’s Lady Stark, not me,” Arya protested, but Margaery only grinned.

“As you say. But the question still stands.”

She very much enjoyed the way Arya turned away from her, an awkward look on her normally unflappable face. “You’re very annoying.”

“I’m persistent.” She placed a hand on Arya’s shoulder. “Your sister and I almost missed our chance. Considering what’s going to happen tonight, I don’t want you to make the same mistake.”

Arya pulled back, letting Margaery’s hand slide off of her shoulder. “Thanks but this isn’t the first time I’ve faced death.”

In a literal sense, Arya was right. Nor was it the first time for her, or Sansa, or any of them, but Margaery knew in her bones that this battle would be different.

“This isn’t like facing Stannis or the Lannisters,” she told Arya. “I don’t know much about this army of the dead but everyone who’s seen it can’t stop talking about is how horrible it is. None of us may live through the night.”

“Valar morgulis,” Arya replied grimly, but then her voice softened. “Try not to have it be tonight. For you or my sister.”

Margaery’s brow furrowed. “Shouldn’t I be the one telling you that? Sansa’s going to be on the battlements with the northern army.”

Arya shook her head. “Bloody hell. She’s impossible.”

“You Starks can be a bit stubborn.” Margaery said with a laugh.

“Maybe so, but she’s going into the crypts tonight if I have to drag her there by her hair.”

***

The mood of the war council was grim as the evening’s discussions concluded. All of them had known that the Night King’s army was powerful, but to hear Jon say that it couldn’t be beaten in field, that in spite of the Unsullied, and Dothraki, and dragons he had brought north, they had no choice but to use Bran as bait… It was hard to find anything more cheerful in their situation than Tormund’s claim that at least they would die together.

It was with that thought weighing on her mind that Sansa scanned the room, searching for Margaery amid the bustle of departing people.  The previous night spent in each other’s arms had been blissful, but the rush of events had given them little more opportunity to be together. Before the dead came, that was something she needed to correct.

Much to Sansa’s surprise, she found her lover in conversation with Arya, and when she caught their eyes, the two women walked toward her together. Before Sansa could question either of them, Arya blurted out “Seven hells, Sansa. What do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”

“I’m talking about you being up on the walls when the battle starts.”

Rather than answer her sister directly, Sansa turned to Margaery. “Did you tell her to say that? I thought we’d agreed this was something I had to do.”

“We did,” Margaery replied defensively. “But when Arya and I were talking earlier, it came up. Your sister had her own thoughts on the subject.”

Sansa sighed. Arya always did have strong opinions, and it was never easy to talk her out of them. “Listen,” she tried, “I know you’re worried about me and I realize that I can’t fight the way that you can, but I’ve been on battlefields before. And there are worse things in this world than dying.”

Arya looked at her with old eyes that reminded Sansa that her sister knew that too, but then she said “This isn’t just about you, Sansa. Our family needs you to survive. Bran is the Three-Eyed Raven now. I don’t know a bloody thing about running Winterfell.”

“Jon…”

“Jon’s our brother, but you’re the one who keeps telling me that the northern lords don’t trust him anymore. He’s all mixed up with the dragon queen, which means you have to speak for the North.”

In a million years, Sansa never would’ve thought she’d hear Arya doubt Jon but she had to admit that her sister had a point. As she was considering it, Margaery reached out, lacing their fingers together and squeezing down. “I know you want to be with your people, Sansa, but they need you alive.”

“Jon and I will be fighting on the front lines for House Stark,” Arya added. “You look after your lady.”

With the two of them arrayed against her, Sansa knew she was beaten and with only a small sigh, she said “All right, then. The crypts it is.”

“Good.” Arya reached under her cloak and took out a pair of dragonglass daggers. “Take these. Just in case any of them get through.”

Sansa starred apprehensively at the blades. “I don’t know how to use them.”

Arya flashed her a wry smile. “Stick them with the pointy end.”

“Sound simple enough,” Margaery said, taking one of the daggers.

Sansa did the same before putting her arms around Arya, holding her tight as a lump formed in her throat. She and her sister had spent so much of their childhoods fighting over a thousand things that all seemed foolish now. It had taken the hell of the last few years to make them realize what they meant to one another, and the thought that their time together might be over for good was agonizing.

“I’ll see you when it’s over,” she finally said, unwilling to suggest aloud that that wasn’t the truth.

“You too,” Arya said. “Both of you.”

Margaery gave her a brief hug as well. “Thank you, Arya. For everything.”

“Don’t mention it,” Arya replied, seeming uncomfortable with the gratitude. “Anyway, I’m sure you two want some time together and there’s someone I have to see before the dead get here.”

Reluctantly, Sansa let her sister go, a tear in her eye as she watched her leave the now empty war room. Sensing her fear, Margaery pressed up against her, laying her head on Sansa’s shoulder. “She’ll be all right.”

“I hope so,” Sansa said quietly. As much as she wanted to believe that, too many members of her family had already died for her to believe that this was a song, where goodness would always prevail and heroes never died. But she had also learned that dwelling on such things did no good and so she wiped her eyes clear and asked “Who do you think she’s going to see?”

“Gendry, at least if she listened to me. None of us should be alone tonight.”

“I suppose not.”

Margaery ran a hand through Sansa’s hair, warmth shining in her eyes. “I know this isn’t what we agreed on, but I’m glad you’ll be with me in the crypts. Everything you said last night about what I meant to you… You know that I feel the same way. I love you more than I can say and I can’t stand the thought of something happening to you.”

Sansa cupped her lover’s cheek in her palm and Margaery pressed her lips against it before leaning in for a proper kiss. Every embrace they shared was sweet, but this one meant even more than most and Sansa lingered in it for as long as she could. “I love you, too,” she said finally. “Now get to the crypts.”

“I thought you said…”

“I did. And I’ll be there soon. There’s just someone I need to find first.”

***

Her search ended outside the Godswood. Although the other Ironborn were nearby, Theon stood by himself, looking up into the night sky in pensive silence. He turned for her though, the ghost of a smile appearing as she approached. “Sansa.”

She smiled back. “Hello, Theon.”

“Shouldn’t you be in the crypts?”

“So everyone keeps telling me. Don’t worry; I’ll go there soon, but I wanted to see you first. We haven’t had much time to talk since you came back.”

She could see Theon fighting the urge to look away from her gaze. “I’m sorry I left, but I couldn’t… I couldn’t face Jon after everything that I’d done.” He paused before adding, “And then I saw him anyway, at Dragonstone, after Yara was taken.”

Sansa hadn’t known that tale. It was a sign of how little time she and Jon had spent together since he’d returned to Winterfell with Daenerys, but she wasn’t going to worry about it now. “How did that go?”

“He said he would’ve killed me, if not for what you told him.”

Sansa gave Theon a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “If not for what you did for me. Whatever mistakes you’ve made, you’ve paid those debts.”

Theon bowed his head, unwilling to meet her eyes. “There’ve been so many of them. Even after we escaped. When our uncle attacked our ship, I let him take my sister…”

“And then you rescued her. At some point, you have to let the past go.”

“Maybe after tonight, I can. One way or another.”

There was a deep fatalism in Theon’s voice and Sansa wondered if he had chosen this assignment not in spite of its dangers but because of them. There was no purpose in dwelling on that though; Theon had made his choice and she could only hope it had been the right one.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Sansa settled on. “After you left for the Iron Islands, I worried about you for a long time. I’m glad to see you’re all right.”

“So are you, my lady. At least you seem to be.”

Unbidden, Sansa’s mind flashed back to the shivering, terrified woman she’d been the last time they’d seen one another. Compared with that, she must seem happy indeed, even in spite of their present troubles. “I am,” she agreed. “I’m home. Bran and Arya came back.”

Sansa almost stopped there and then she surprised herself by deciding to continue. Theon had seen her worst moments and rescued her from them; he could be trusted with the truth about the best of what his bravery had helped her find. “I even found someone that I love.”

Theon seemed surprised by that. “Who?”

Sansa couldn’t hide a smile at the thought of her lover. “Lady Margaery.” She saw his eyes widen and she added “I hope I didn’t shock you. It’s not conventional, I know.”

“No, I… I’m not shocked. My sister loves other women too.”

“I hadn’t heard that. Has it caused her problems?”

“Not really. Yara always did what she wanted, no matter what anyone else thought about it.”

Sansa couldn’t help but laugh at that. “She sounds a bit like Arya.”

“I wish they could’ve known each other,” Theon said, and Sansa could hear the regret creeping back into his voice. “I wish that so many things had been different. That your father hadn’t gone to King’s Landing. That Robb and Rickon…”

“I know.” Sansa wrapped her arms around Theon. He was thinner than during their childhoods, but she could feel a strength in him that had been absent when they parted. In that moment, she knew that whatever his past failures, he would stand his ground tonight.

“I’m happy for you, Sansa,” Theon said. “Margaery seems lovely.”

“She is,” Sansa agreed, before letting go of the last living person who knew first hand what she had survived. “Goodbye, Theon. I’ll see you again soon.”

But the wind was cold across her face as she walked toward the crypts and in her heart, Sansa knew that at least some of the promises she’d made that night wouldn’t be kept. Win or lose, there was no way all of them would survive long enough to see the sun rise.


	6. Chapter 6

“Is Sansa planning on joining us?” Olenna asked, and Margaery nearly jumped out of her skin at the sound of a human voice. As crowded as the entryway to the crypts was, for long minutes there had been no noise there save the shallow breathing of its fearful occupants and the occasional shifting of booted feet on stone.

“Of course, grandmother,” she blurted out automatically, but in truth, doubt had begun to gnaw at Margaery. Sansa could be every bit as stubborn as her sister, and Margaery worried that she might’ve returned to her original determination to be out on the walls when the battle began.

“Well, she’d best get here soon,” Olenna said sharply. “We don’t want her trailing these dead men into this sepulcher with her.”

Margaery said nothing in response, too lost in her own thoughts, but now that the silence had been broken, a number of the people in the crypt began hushed, nervous conversations of their own. Even as they tried to distract themselves from their fears, Tyrion came over to her, a glass of wine in his hand.   “Lady Margaery. It’s good to see you again, even if under such dreadful circumstances.”

“You as well, Lord Tyrion.” The courtesy came to Margaery’s lips without thought, even in her distracted state. In truth, she wasn’t sure what to think of this man who had once been married to Sansa, who was the uncle of two of the three kings Margaery herself had married, and who now served the dragon queen.

“It’s been a strange road here,” he added. “For both of us.”

With a concealed breath, Margaery gathered her thoughts back up. She might not be able to fight, but at least she could talk. “I suppose we can both thank your sister for our exiles.”

Tyrion’s reply was somewhere between wry and simply bitter. “Cersei does have quite an effect on everyone she meets. I was innocent of my alleged crimes. What about you?”

“It depends what charges you’re referring to. Though none of them were why she hated me.”

“No, I imagine being who you were would’ve been enough for Cersei to despise you. It certainly was in my case.” He paused, scrunching up his face. Margaery thought he had an interesting face, always more expressive than most, and sadder now than it used to be. “Though I wonder who really did kill Joffery.”

“That was me,” Olenna interjected, and Margaery spun to face her grandmother even as Tyrion’s mouth dropped open in shock. Olenna only shrugged at their disbelief. “It hardly matters now and I’m sure you’ll agree he would’ve been no fit husband for Margaery.”

“No, I suppose not,” Tyrion said, but he seemed profoundly distracted, no doubt contemplating the devastation Olenna’s regicide had wrought in his life. It hadn’t been her grandmother’s intent that he take the blame for the king’s poisoning, but the great game was a merciless beast, chewing up the innocent and the guilty alike.

Just then, the door to the crypt opened and Margaery instantly forgot all about Tyrion’s troubles. The only person she could see was Sansa and it took every bit of her self-restraint not to rush into her lover’s arms and cover her face with kisses. Instead, she settled for giving her a warm smile, even as Olenna said, “Good of you to join us, my dear. Has this great battle of your brother’s started yet?”

“Soon, I’m told,” Sansa replied calmly. “We need to bar the doors first.”

While others busied themselves carrying out their lady’s command, Sansa walked over to Margaery and Tyrion. Her former husband was pouring himself more wine, leaving Sansa free to return Margaery’s smile. _Don’t worry_ , her face seemed to say. _I’d never leave you here alone._

***

Being trapped in a castle under siege involved a strange mixture of numbing fear and incredible boredom. Sansa vividly recalled the experience from her time spent in Maegor’s Holdfast but now she was playing the role of Cersei, expected to keep up the spirits of those around her. It was a sobering thought, especially since there was nothing she could do but maintain a dignified calm and hope that, somewhere above her head, the living were winning the battle.

Tyrion was not taking this approach. He had already drunk several glasses of wine and now he was pacing back and forth across the crypt, clearly agitated even before he exclaimed, “If I was up there, I might see something everyone else is missing. Something that makes a difference.”

Varys sighed in a way that suggested he’d heard such arguments before. “You are no solider.”

“Remember the Battle of the Blackwater?” Tyrion protested. “I brought us through the Mud Gate.”

“And got your face cut in half,” Varys pointed out.

“And it made a difference. If I was out there right now…”

It wasn’t clear how long the two of them would’ve gone on in that vein but Sansa had heard enough. “You’d die,” she said curtly. “There’s nothing you can do.”

“You might be surprised at the lengths I’d go to in order to avoid joining the army of the dead. I can think of no organization less suited to my talents,” Tyrion declared before taking another drink.

“Witty remarks won’t make a difference. None of the things that you or I are any good at will make a difference against the Night King. That’s why we’re down here. It’s the truth and the most heroic thing we can do right now is to look the truth in the face.”

Tyrion seemed impressed by that, at least enough to put down his cup for once. “Maybe we should’ve stayed married, my lady.”

That surprised Sansa. She’d thought Tyrion a realist on this subject, but she could tell that his words were only half a joke. It did make a kind of sense though, as she reflected on it. When they’d been married, she’d been little more than a terrified child hostage. Now, she was the Lady of Winterfell while he was the Hand of the Queen, which would have made them a better match if not for… well, a great many things, not all of which she wished to discuss. Still, it wouldn’t do to give him false hope.

“You were the best of them,” was what Sansa decided on. “But it wouldn’t work between us.”

“Why not?”

Beside her, Sansa could practically feel Margaery brisling at Tyrion’s question even before she said, “Because sometimes it’s better to leave the past behind us.”

“What do you mean by that?” Tyrion asked, clearly surprised to hear Margaery object.

Her lover’s response was another question. “What happened to Shae?”

The question hit Tyrion like a sword to the heart. His mouth fell open but for once, no words came out. Instead he took two steps backward, shaking his head all the while. Finally, in a shadow of his usual voice he said, “She had a knife.”

Sansa didn’t know what to say to that. Though it had taken her an embarrassingly long time to figure it out, she had eventually realized that Shae had been her erstwhile husband’s mistress. But she had also been kind to Sansa, and hearing that Tyrion had killed her was something Sansa had no response for.

Olenna, however, did. In a tone that could freeze wildfire, she interjected, “I think my granddaughter’s first instinct was correct. All of us should leave the past be tonight.”

No one seemed inclined to object, instead retreating in separate directions across the crypt in awkward silence. Sansa, though, had no choice but to follow Margaery. Even if she was irritated, her lover was in obvious distress, quivering with some emotion Sansa couldn’t quite read, and that overrode everything else.

“What is it?” she asked softly.

“I’m so sorry, Sansa. I shouldn’t have said that just now.”

“Then why did you? Surely you can’t be jealous of Tyrion. I would never…”

“I know.  It’s just…” Margaery looked away, starring at the wall instead. “Can you ask me again tomorrow if we’re still alive?”

Sansa only nodded. The fight Margaery with Tyrion had picked could cause real complications for them down the road, but there was no sense in worrying about that now. Problems were for the living.

***

It was a company Sansa increasingly doubted she would be in for long. Though she didn’t know how the battle was progressing, it soon became clear that the armies of the living had lost the field. Their enemy was inside the walls of Winterfell, and even down in the crypts, she could hear the sounds of combat: the clanging of metal, the screams of dying men, and worst of all, the scratching of hands against the door, desperate for entry. Her people were being slaughtered and there was nothing Sansa could do to help them.

Whatever hushed conversations had sprung up soon died away, replaced with a silence born of paralyzing dread. Sansa thought of the hymn she had once led Cersei’s “Frightened flock of hens” in singing, but even that seemed like more than her guests could bear. All she could do was try to hold back her own terror and hope that those around her could take strength in her apparent steadfastness.

After their last exchange, Margaery had said nothing for some time, and it was just as Sansa was on the verge of checking on her that she heard the rustling. Her first impulse was to look around to see who had moved, but then she realized the awful truth: the noise was coming from the tombs that lined the walls. All around her, her long-dead ancestors were returning to a hideous semblance of life and as they rose, the only thing Sansa could think to do was grab Margaery’s hand and run.

“This way!” Tyrion screamed, gesturing further into the tunnels. “Come on!”

Many of the Starks of old had been buried with their swords and axes, weapons they now turned on anyone within reach. The flight of the living dissolved almost immediately into a panic, rank and titles no longer counting for anything as people pushed into one another in a frantic attempt to escape.

Not all of them succeeded. Behind her, Sansa heard bodies falling to the ground, followed by horrid screams as the dead plunged their ancient weapons into those who’d proven too slow. Sansa could do nothing for them, nothing but try to keep close to Margaery and stay alive. She did spare a glance for Olenna, but in the chaos, all she could see was a horde of barely distinct people clamoring over each other.

The distraction of that brief scan almost cost her everything. Even as Sansa gave up on locating Olenna, she felt a weight fall on her shoulder and she spun around to find herself starring into a skull’s empty eye sockets. Bony fingers dug into the fabric of her gown and she fumbled for her dagger, only to find that Margaery had drawn hers first. The dark blade crashed into the skeleton’s ribcage and the thing’s hold on her came apart as it clattered into pieces.

There was no time for her shock and before she could say any words of gratitude, Margaery grabbed her sleeve and tugged hard. They ran once more, but outracing their peril proved difficult. More tombs lined the walls and now they too disgorged their dead occupants among the fleeing crowds.

Skeletal hands reached out for her and Sansa slashed at them without thought or technique, just the desperate urge to keep their claws from her skin. So intent was she on that one goal that she scarcely noticed where she was running until Margaery pulled her behind a statue of some long-forgotten King of Winter.

For an instant, everything seemed to stop, neither the dead nor the living noticing them for now. Sansa drew in a long breath, trying to gather her wits. She could see the terror in Margaery’s eyes, and it made her feel utterly helpless. For so many years, she’d made fun of her sister for wasting her time playing with swords and bows and lowborn boys but now she would’ve given anything for even a ghost of Arya’s skills.

Yet in spite of her ineptitude, there was nothing for Sansa to do but try and fight her way to safety. They couldn’t hide there forever, and so she clenched her fingers tightly around her dagger and did her best to banish the fear from her heart. In lieu of the thousand words that there was no time to speak, she simply leaned over and tried to say them all with one last kiss. On Margaery’s lips, she could taste dread and doubt but above all love, and from that Sansa took what strength she could. They nodded to one another and rose to face the end of the world together.


	7. Chapter 7

Margaery had never had an interest in fighting, but necessity was a powerful motivator. Without any alternative, she lashed out wildly at the dead men who continued to emerge from their tombs, hacking and slashing at their boney limbs with desperate abandon. Beside her, Sansa stood her ground as well, grim determination etched across her face. With a grunt, she drove her dagger into the ribcage of a decayed skeleton clawing at a young boy too slow to escape it, cutting through cloth and bone.

As the creature fell to pieces, the child ran down the corridor, bloodied and screaming, but Margaery wasn’t able to follow him. Another dead man lunged at her, an axe in its hand, and she only barely ducked under the blow. Before it could make another strike, Margaery stabbed the arm that held its axe. The weapon fell to the ground but a swing of the skeleton’s other hand impacted her stomach hard. Margaery winced in pain, her dagger falling from her grasp as she tumbled downward.

The skeleton fell on top of her and though it weighed little, some terrible force gave it strength. Margaery fumbled desperately at its boney form, trying unsuccessfully to hold back gnashing teeth and scratching fingers. Pain shot through her as the creature latched onto her shoulders, bone digging into the thick fabric of her dress, its empty skull descending toward her throat.

And then, with a crash of obsidian against bone, it stopped. Margaery gasped for breath as she pushed what was now just a corpse off, calming slightly when she saw Sansa standing above her, pulling back her dagger. “Are you all right?” her beloved asked, extending her hand

“I, I am,” Margaery panted, taking Sansa’s hand and staggering back to her feet.

Once she found her balance, she turned back around, searching the floor for her dagger. She moved slowly, still dazed, and when the screams of dying women came from some unseen corridor, she stopped cold. There was no escape from this horror it seemed, only a choice of places to die.

“Come on,” Sansa told her, “We have to go _now_.”

Her firmness snapped Margaery back to reality. However desperate their situation, she would gain nothing by freezing. Scooping up her dagger she followed Sansa down the hall, eying the darkness warily for any signs of movement.

She wasn’t sure where they should be going, but when she heard a voice call, “This way,” she saw Varys standing at the end of another corridor, accompanied by a number of children. Margaery turned to Sansa, and when her lover nodded, both of them jogged toward the group.

“The others?” Sansa asked, still panting from their flight but otherwise as calm as could be hoped for under the circumstances.

Varys shook his head. “We were separated.”

“What now?” Margaery asked, but before anyone could answer, she heard the clack of bones against stone, a sound that was drawing steadily closer.

Sansa raised her dagger and her voice was hard when she declared, “It seems we fight.”

Margaery did the same. In that moment, the terror gripping her heart was far away, as far as the cuts and bruises she’d suffered. Whatever her fate might be, she wouldn’t just lie down and die, and she wouldn’t let these things have Sansa or the children. Not if she could help it.

Her eyes narrowed, scanning the torch-lit corridors, and seconds later, she saw three nightmarish shapes emerge clad in the rotting remnants of clothing and armed with rusted weapons, charging…

…And then stopping. Only feet away from her, all three crumbled to the ground like puppets without a master, seemingly no more than the dead bodies they had been for ages before.

Silence reigned in the crypts. At first, no one seemed to understand what had happened, but when the dead remained still, and no sounds of movement could be heard anywhere, the truth eventually sunk it.

_The Night Knight must be dead. We won._

Slowly, as if moving too suddenly could break the spell, she turned toward Sansa, and she saw the same revelation dawn in her lover’s eyes. Margaery’s face broke into a smile and before she could worry about what people would think, she and Sansa were falling into a tight embrace.

The simple, physical reality of Sansa in her arms was enough to make Margaery weep. All around them, the children were cheering and hugging one another as well while Varys watched impassively, but Margaery paid none of them any mind.

“We’re alive,” she whispered, unable to believe the words were true. “We’re still alive.”

There was an uncommon tear in Sansa’s eye as she looked back at Margaery. “Yes, we are.”   She squeezed down on Margaery’s shoulder, her tone suddenly apologetic. “Margaery, my family… I have to find them.”

Margaery gave her an understanding smile. “Do what you have to. I need to find my grandmother too.”

***

Even with the dead asleep once more, the crypts remained an unsettling place and Margaery was glad for Varys’ company as she walked the silent corridors in search of her grandmother. In spite of what they’d just endured, the former Master of Whispers remained calm, and his composure helped Margaery to regain her own.

“I appreciate your help,” she said, pleased to note that her voice wasn’t shaking anymore. She’d always prided herself on her ability to master any situation, but nothing in her upbringing had prepared her for what had happened that night.

“I have great respect for Lady Olenna,” Varys said in a tone that might even have been genuine. “Besides, the last time I saw her was with Tyrion and after all that we’ve been through together, I should see whether he’s still among the living.”

Margaery stepped over a collection of bones that, minutes earlier, would’ve been trying to kill her, with an unreasonably anxious glance downward. She wondered how many times she’d have to escape death until she became as calm in its face as someone like Brienne. “I will say, it surprised me to find the two of you at the queen’s side, considering your past allegiances.”

“I have always sought the good of the realm. When one’s devotion is to a goal rather than a person, it can lead to some complicated situations, something I’m sure you can sympathize with, given your house’s maneuvers these last few years.”

Margaery looked over at Varys. Assessing his expressions was never easy and the dim light in the crypts didn’t do her any favors. Was he trying to connect with her, to get under her skin, or was his aim something else entirely? Margaery wasn’t sure, and so she remained non-committal. “It’s been a strange time for all of us.”

“And it’s a great relief to me that you’ve survived it, my lady. You and Sansa Stark both. I had such fears for her safety when we were all in King’s Landing.”

At the mention of her lover’s past suffering, Margaery’s heart clenched but she did her best not to let that show on her face. “Yes, I recall you tried to arrange her marriage to my brother in order to get her out of the city.”

“Not an ideal match, I’ll admit, but it would’ve kept her safe at least. A pity Littlefinger interfered; one can only hope Sansa finds someone more suitable in the future.”

Margaery knew far too much about the great game to miss what he was getting at. It was no surprise to her that someone as clever as Varys the Spider would realize what had blossomed between her and Sansa. The question was what he planned to do about it, but before Margaery could delve further into that question, she heard a pained groan come from one of the corridors, followed by a familiar voice.

“Careful how tight you make that,” Tyrion complained. “I can barely feel my arm as it is.”

Margaery hurried in the direction of his voice and as she drew closer, torchlight revealed not only Tyrion but several other survivors, Olenna chief among them. She was sitting on the floor, clearly alive even if her expression was sour, and Margaery ran to embrace her.

“Thank the Gods you’re all right, grandmother,” she said as she wrapped her arms around Olenna, careful not to squeeze too hard in case she had injuries Margaery couldn’t see. “I was so afraid for you.”

“You too, dear. You too,” Olenna said, patting her on the back. She was clearly shaken from her ordeal, but that would pass, Margaery reminded herself. It all would, now.

Varys meanwhile was looking over at Tyrion, who had a gash on his shoulder that was being bandaged by an older woman Margaery didn’t know. He shook his head. “You did want to join the battle, my lord.”

Much to Margaery’s surprise, her grandmother spoke up in favor of Tyrion. “Leave him be. I twisted an ankle trying to escape those wretched creatures and Lord Tyrion did his best to defend me.”

“Unfortunately, the Gods didn’t make me able to fight like my brother,” Tyrion added with a wry smile before turning to Margaery. “What about Sansa? Did she make it through?”

Margaery nodded, unable to keep from smiling at the knowledge. “She did. She’s gone to find her family. I just hope they’re all right too.”

***

What Sansa found on her way to the Godswood would’ve been enough to make a younger, softer version of her weep. The battle had smashed Winterfell to pieces, broken stones littering the grounds of her home, most of them covered in corpses. She wanted to stop and see who the dead were, but they were too numerous for one person to check on; a full accounting would have to wait for the morning. For now, all Sansa could do was see to her family.

The Godswood was in much the same condition as the rest of the castle, filled with both the dead who’d come to kill them and those who’d joined their ranks during the night. Small fires burned here and there on its grounds, but Sansa ignored them, making straight for the great Weirwood that even now stood proudly at the heart of the glade, the only living thing untouched by the battle.

A few exhausted soldiers were standing nearby but they parted at her approach and when Sansa at last got a clear view of the tree, her heart nearly stopped. At its base sat Bran in his chair, as impassive as ever, and much to her surprise, Arya was next to him, seated with her back against the trunk. Her forehead was darkened with blood and dirt and she looked as if she’d lived a hundred years that night, but she was undeniably alive.

Sansa abandoned any pretense of reserve as she rushed toward them, bending down to hug her sister tight against her chest. She felt little of Arya’s usual strength in their embrace, just a bone-deep fatigue that made her feel as small as her size in Sansa’s arms. Still, though, she had a smile on her face when Sansa drew back to look at it.

For once, so did Bran, and Sansa hugged him as well. None of them said anything at first, letting Sansa simply bask in her relief that the last three children of Ned and Catelyn Stark had all survived this horror.

“What happened?” she finally managed to ask.

“Arya killed him,” Bran said, not needing to explain who ‘him’ was. “It’s over.”

Sansa starred wide-eyed at her sister. “You killed the Night King?”

Arya gave Bran a tiny grin. “He gave me the knife.”

“Littlefinger’s dagger?”

“I told her she’d know what to do with it when the time came.”

Later, Sansa might ponder how much of this Bran had planned or simply known in advance, but for now, she had too much else on her mind. “I guess you did,” Sansa said, hugging Arya once more. “You saved us all.”

“Including Margaery?” Arya asked.

“Yes. The dead in the crypts rose, but…” She held Arya a little tighter. “You stopped them in time. She’s looking for her grandmother now.”

“Good.” Arya sighed, and then laughed. “You know, I’ve got a lot of bruises you’re squeezing right now.”

Reluctantly, Sansa let her sister go. “What about Jon?”

“He’s all right too,” Bran said, without explaining more.

“And Theon?”

Arya shook her head, and Sansa felt something within her tighten. After all the destruction she’d seen, it had been too much to hope for that none of those close to her had died. Still, the knowledge struck a deep blow, and there was pain in her voice when she asked, “How?”

“Protecting me,” Bran told her and she followed his eyes toward a body that lay alone amidst snow that glistened with a strange light. Theon was on his side, the shaft of a spear shoved all the way through his armor and when Sansa rolled him over, she could see that his face was blank, showing no hint of what his final thoughts had been.

 _Was this what you wanted all along?_ She thought, her cheeks moistening. _There was no need. You had already been forgiven._

Wiping her tears away, Sansa rose from the snow. There would be time enough for grief later. Now, she was still the Lady of Winterfell and her broken castle would need her before the sun rose.


	8. Chapter 8

Smoke still stung Sansa’s eyes as she passed through the gates of Winterfell, the massive pyres behind her not yet burned out. A heavy silence held the battle’s survivors in its grasp, one that she felt no urge to break. As relieved as she was that her siblings and Margaery still lived, the butcher’s bill had been high nonetheless. Theon’s loss hurt most of all, but both of the Mormonts, Lord Beric, Edd, and countless others whose names she would never know were gone as well.

Even after all the death she’d seen in the last few years, the magnitude of the price they’d paid in one, terrible night battling the White Walkers was staggering. Jon had been right; those who still lived owed the dead a debt that could never be repaid. All they could do was try to make a world worthy of those sacrifices; a humbling burden, especially considering how much remained to be done before they could lay down their arms.

It was only the sight of Margaery walking up beside her that drew Sansa out of her somber musings. The two of them had barely had any time to spend together since the battle ended, and the concern in Margaery’s eyes was obvious.

“Are you all right?” she asked softly.

Sansa shrugged. “As well as can be expected. Don’t worry about it.”

Margaery placed a hand on her shoulder. “It’s all right to mourn, Sansa.”

She paused before answering. A part of her wanted to do just that, to give the dead the tears they deserved, but Sansa knew that if she started down that road, she might never be able to stop. Her parents, Robb and Rickon, and a more hundred losses lay beneath Theon, a vast pit of sorrow that she had no time to plumb. For now, she had her duty to the North, and to those she loved that remained to her. That would have to be enough.

“Not today,” she replied finally. “Maybe there’ll be a time for grief, but our battles are far from over.”

“You’re thinking of Cersei.”

Sansa looked around, making sure no one else was listening to them. “At the very least.”

Margaery bowed her head. “Daenerys fought with us against the Night King. She almost died doing it, according to your brother, and many of her people did.”

“That’s wasn’t out of charity. She couldn’t be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms if they were overrun by the dead. Now the dead are gone and she’s still here, planning to rule over all of us.”

“Would that be so terrible?”

Sansa sighed. That was exactly the question Sansa had been turning over in her mind for weeks now. “Daenerys is better than Cersei, I’ll grant you, but that doesn’t mean I want the North to bend the knee to her. We’re not like the rest of the kingdoms. We don’t keep the same gods, or make knights, or do lots of other things the same way as in the south. There’s good reasons we were ruled by our own kings since the Age of Heroes, and the only thing that changed that was that the Targaryens had dragons.”

“And now they have them again.”

If the matter wasn’t so fraught, Sansa might have laughed. “Hence my concern.”

Margaery nodded understandingly. “I see your point. Unfortunately, what I don’t see is a solution. You can’t want to start a war with Daenerys. Not after everything we’ve been through. Not with Cersei still sitting on the Iron Throne.”

“No,” Sansa conceded. “And even if I did, Daenerys is too strong. She lost a lot in the battle with the dead, but so did we, and she still has those dragons. We’ll have to think of some other way out of this.”

Margaery took her hand, squeezing it reassuringly. “Then that’s what we’ll do.   But right now, we have a feast to prepare for.”

“Of course, my love,” Sansa agreed with a weary smile. After all, someone had to keep her brother from giving away the North tonight.

***

Margaery had been to her share of feasts before, but none of them had been quite like this. That night, Winterfell’s great hall was host to a truly unusual mixture of warriors: Wildlings and Northmen, Dothraki and Unsullied, the Knights of the Vale and all the rest of the strange company that had gathered to defeat the army of the dead were together in one place, drinking and laughing, flirting and singing with a wild abandon.

Perhaps they were truly happy to be alive, or perhaps they just wished to blot out what they’d seen for a little while, but either way, the hall was bright, loud, and full of energy. Even the Unsullied were a bit less grim than usual; Margaery could’ve sworn she’d seen a few of them crack smiles, a first in her brief experience. It was hard to imagine a more disparate group, but at least for tonight, they were united by their shared triumph over horrors few of them had heard of until recently but that they would never forget.

Only at the high bench was the mood subdued. Bran was his usual, silent self and Daenerys too was saying little, but perhaps for a different reason. The warmth that had been so evident between her and Jon prior to the battle had vanished, the two of them instead exchanging periodic, uneasy glances whose origins Margaery couldn’t place.

Nor was she the only one curious about their interactions. Although Sansa’s face was too blank to give away what she was thinking, her interest in Daenerys was clear to an attentive observer, her eyes drifting away from her other guests and toward the dragon queen every time there was a break in the conversation.

“She really is striking,” Margaery whispered, shooting Sansa a private, naughty smile. “Normally, I like having you all to myself, but if you’re so smitten, maybe we could make an exception for the last Targaryen.”

It had gotten hard to conjure up the bashful girl Margaery had first met in King’s Landing from inside the Lady of Winterfell, but her suggestion did the trick. “That’s not what I was thinking about,” Sansa stammered, turning away so that no one else could see the blush creeping up her face.

“I know that, dear.” Margaery laughed and patted the back of Sansa’s hand. “It’s just that you’ve been looking her way a great deal tonight.”

“I shouldn’t be so obvious,” Sansa admitted. “But something is going on. She and Jon seem…”

“Distant. I’ve noticed it too.”

Before either of them could say more about the topic, Jon himself turned in their direction. The trouble living behind his eyes confirmed Margaery’s suspicions, even if he was doing his best to maintain a brave smile. “I hope you’re enjoying yourselves tonight, my lady.”

“Well enough,” Margaery told him. “Mostly I’m just appreciating a having moment to relax after everything we’ve been through.”

“That makes sense,” Jon agreed, sounding like a man who hadn’t had many such moments himself of late. “I’m sorry your aunt couldn’t join us. Is she all right?”

“Lady Olenna is still recovering from the battle,” Sansa offered. “She went through quite an ordeal in the crypts and she needed rest more than a party.”

Jon nodded understandingly, and Margaery chimed in, “I notice Lady Arya is also absent.”

“My sister isn’t always the most sociable,” he laughed. “Or much of a lady. But after saving all of our lives, I’d say that she’s earned the right to spend the night wherever she wants.”

Margaery bit back a laugh of her own; she doubted that Jon knew just where his sister had spent the night _before_ the battle. “I have no argument with that.”

“Nor do I,” Sansa agreed, just as their attention was drawn, along with the rest of the hall, to the sight of Gendry standing before the high bench. That hadn’t been his intended destination, Margaery suspected, but one glance from Daenerys had been enough to stop the smith dead in his tracks.

“Gendry,” she said, her tone coldly formal. “That’s your name, isn’t it?”

He took a step toward the queen, looking like a servant who’d just been caught stuffing his mouth with sweets intended for a feast. “Yes, your Grace.”

“You’re Robert Baratheon’s son.” The words were not a question; indeed, they sounded almost like an accusation and Margaery felt the chill spread from the queen to the rest of the hall. After a nervous pause, Gendry nodded, and Daenerys continued, “You are aware that your father stole my family’s throne and tried to have me murdered?”

“I didn’t even know he was my father until after he was dead.”

Daenerys nodded, and Margaery felt something subtle shift, her voice no longer menacing even if it wasn’t yet warm. “Yes, he’s dead. His brothers are too. So who’s the lord of Storm’s End now?”

When he failed to reply immediately, Margaery realized where this was going. _Very clever._

“I don’t know, your Grace.”

“Does anyone?” Once Daenerys had waited long enough to ensure that no one would offer an answer, she added, “I think you should be lord of Storm’s End.”

Gendry’s mouth fell open far enough to shove more than a few of those hypothetical sweets inside of it. “I can’t be,” he mumbled. “I’m a bastard.”

“Not anymore,” Daenerys told him, and Margaery watched Jon and Sansa’s eyes go wide as they realized the same thing Margaery already had. “You are Lord Gendry Baratheon of Storm’s End, the lawful son of Robert Baratheon, because that is what I have made you.”

There was a small smile on Daenerys’ face, while Gendry remained dumbfounded. Indeed, no one else seemed to know what to say next until finally Sir Davos rose, lifting his goblet high. “To Lord Gendry Baratheon of Storm’s End.”

His words broke the spell of silence that lay across the hall, and moments later, the rest of the assembly joined Davos on their feet, toasting him with a hearty, “To Gendry, Lord of Storm’s End.”

Daenerys’ smile broadened as Jon gave Gendry a cup so that he could return the toast. As he drank down the ale, Sansa’s suspicious gaze returned to Daenerys. Not that Margaery could blame her. This certainly seemed to be a cunning stroke, showing magnanimity toward the son of an enemy while simultaneously creating a new great lord loyal to her, but Margaery wasn’t so sure it would work out to Daenerys’ advantage. Unless she very much missed her guess, Gendry had been on his way to find a different member of House Stark, which meant that his allegiances might still be in play.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At long last, we're back! This chapter is a bit short, but hopefully updates will be more regular going forward.


	9. Chapter 9

Though all the surviving members of House Stark were gathered together in the Godswood, Sansa didn’t exactly feel the warm embrace of family just then. Not after that morning’s war council, where Daenerys had demanded that their exhausted armies march without delay for King’s Landing, and Jon had agreed to follow her orders.

After the meeting had finished, Arya had insisted that the four of them speak privately, but for now, no one seemed to know where to begin, each waiting for one of the others to make the first move. It was Jon, though, who seemed the most uncomfortable, feeling the combined weight of his sisters’ disapproval, and so he was the one to finally end the silence.

“You understand we’d all be dead if not for her. We’d be corpses marching down to King’s Landing, not a living army.”

“Arya’s the one who killed the Night King, not Daenerys.” Sansa reminded him.

“Her men gave their lives defending Winterfell,” Jon protested, yet Sansa could hear the uncertainty in his voice. It was clear he was torn between loyalties, but though she regretted putting him in that position, it wasn’t enough to make her stop.

“And we’ll never forget their sacrifices. That doesn’t mean I want to kneel to an outsider, or that I’m planning to force the North to do the same.”

“I swore myself and the North to her cause,” Jon told her, as if that settled the issue, but before Sansa could respond, Arya spoke up.

“And I respect that.”

Sansa turned toward her sister, surprised. If anything, Arya had been more suspicious of Daenerys than her. “You respect it?”

Arya shrugged. “We needed Daenerys. Her army. Her dragons. Jon told us we couldn’t beat the Night King without her, and he was right. But we’re right when we tell him that we don’t trust his queen.”

“You don’t know her yet,” Jon objected.

“I’ll never really know her,” Arya replied, as cool as ever. “She’s not one of us.”

Sansa could hear despair creeping into Jon’s voice. “Arya, if you only trust the people you grew up with, you won’t make many allies.”

There was a small smirk on Arya’s face when she answered, “That’s all right. I don’t _need_ many allies.”

“But Margaery’s one of them, isn’t she?” Jon said, and Sansa winced internally. She’d wondered how long it would take before her brother noticed Margaery’s unusual position at Winterfell. “The two of you don’t trust Daenerys. Seven hells, you barely even trust me anymore, but for some reason, you both seem to trust Margaery Tyrell. Why exactly is that?”

Arya looked over to Sansa, and when Sansa starred back at her sister, Arya made a face that seemed to say, “This is your mess. Deal with it.”

And so it was. Sansa didn’t enjoy sharing the truth about her relationship, but right now, she had no choice. She needed Jon to trust her, and that wouldn’t happen if she didn’t do the same. “Margaery was a great friend to me when I was the Lannisters’ prisoner.” She paused before adding, “And since she came north, she and I have become lovers.”

Jon’s eyes widened, but to his credit, he didn’t lose his composure completely.   “That’s… not what I expected.”

“Me either,” Arya agreed. She seemed as amused as ever by the situation, but she turned more serious when she added, “But Sansa trusts her, and I trust Sansa.”

Bran nodded in agreement. “Lady Margaery doesn’t mean us any harm.”

“All right then,” Jon said, clearly not eager to discuss Sansa’s love life any further. “I suppose I can’t argue with all three of you about Margaery. I don’t even want to. But _I_ trust Daenerys. Why doesn’t that count for something?”

 _Because even if I trust your love of your family, I don’t trust your judgment,_ Sansa wanted to say, but she restrained herself for the time being. “Because I don’t believe she’s especially concerned about the fate of our house. To her, we’re just a means to reclaiming her throne, nothing more. You’re the leader of House Stark, Jon. That has to come before everything else.”

“I’ve never been a Stark,” Jon said, and Sansa felt the stirring of an old shame. She’d been as guilty as anyone for treating him as an outsider when he was a boy, and whatever their disagreements now, he deserved better.

“You’re just as much Ned Stark’s child as any of us,” she said affectionately.

Arya put it more simply. “You’re my brother, Jon,” she told him, taking hold of his arm and squeezing down firmly. “Not my half brother or my bastard brother. My brother.”

Sansa expected some response, but instead, another uncomfortable silence fell over the group. This time, it was Bran and Jon who exchanged looks, and then Bran said, “It’s your choice.”

Jon sighed deeply. “I suppose it’s time. But all of you have to swear you’ll never tell another soul what I’m about to tell you.”

“How can I promise to keep a secret if I don’t even know what it is?” Sansa asked.

“Because we’re family. Swear it. Please.”

It was Arya who replied first, “I swear it.”

“I swear it,” Sansa added, though with more hesitation.

“Tell them,” Jon said to Bran, as if afraid to even speak whatever this truth was himself.

“As you wish. Jon isn’t the son of Eddard Stark. His true name isn’t even Jon Snow. He’s the son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark. She named him Aegon.”

“Wait, she named him that after Rhaegar raped her?” Arya asked, clearly confused.

Jon shook his head. It would take a long time for Sansa not to think of him as ‘Jon,’ whatever his past. “It wasn’t like that. They were in love. Rhaegar had the High Septon annul his marriage to Princess Elia and then he married my mother in secret.”

Arya shook her head. “Bloody hells. Is everyone I know secretly royalty?”

Sansa stood stunned as her mind wrapped itself around the news, the full contours of the revelation gradually becoming clearer. “He’s more than just royalty, Arya,” she finally said. “He’s the heir to the Iron Throne.”

“But Daenerys’ father was the king,” Arya said, “Rhaegar was just a prince.”

Sansa had to suppress a smile. Arya had never paid much heed to any lesson that didn’t involve swords and daring adventures. “It doesn’t matter. Rhaegar was the heir, so even if he was never crowned, the throne passes to his children before his brothers and sisters. Besides, I think one of the Great Councils said that men always come before women in the order of succession anyway.”

“It was called in 101 AC,” Bran affirmed. “By King Jaehaerys the First, to determine who his heir should be.”

“And Robert’s claim is extinguished,” Sansa added. “Whether or not he was a usurper doesn’t matter anymore, since he had no trueborn sons and both of his brothers are dead. Jon _is_ the rightful king.”

The rightful king, however, was far from thrilled by her conclusions. His face had been falling even as she spoke, and now he protested, “It doesn’t matter, Sansa. I swore an oath to serve Queen Daenerys, and that’s what I intend to do.”

Sansa put a hand on Jon’s shoulder. “I love you, Jon. You’re as honorable as your,” she almost said ‘father,’ and then remembered the truth, “Uncle was. But his honor got him killed, and this is about what’s best for the North, not an oath you swore.”

Before he could respond, Arya interrupted them. “Can we actually prove any of this?”

“Not really,” Bran admitted. “Samwell Tarly found the High Septon’s diary, which confirms the annulment, but that doesn’t prove that Rhaegar and Lyanna had a son, let alone that it was Jon. Only my visions can show that.”

“Which Daenerys will claim are bull,” Arya pointed out. “You know that she will.”

“I think people will believe Jon,” Sansa argued. “They know how honest he is, and more than that, they’ll want him to be their king. He grew up in Westeros; he feels like one of them. Whatever her bloodlines, Daenerys will always be a foreigner to most people here.”

“And he’s a man,” Arya added. “Men seem to care about that.”

Sansa had her own thoughts on how much that particular factor should count, but in this situation, she had to agree such prejudices could be useful. “They do.”

“I keep telling you it doesn’t matter,” Jon snapped. “I’m not going to challenge Daenerys’ claim and I don’t want to hear any more about this.”

***

“And then what happened?”

Sansa gave Margaery a small shrug. “Nothing of importance. It was clear that at least today, Arya and I weren’t going to change his mind, so for now, we’re at an impasse.”

“I see.” Margaery settled down into one of the solar’s carved chairs, clearly shaken. Sansa couldn’t blame her; the secret she had just shared with her lover had left her deeply unsettled as well. A part of her felt bad about having told Margaery at all, but in spite of her promise to Jon, it was necessary. This truth could remake the future of the Seven Kingdoms, and Sansa needed her most trusted advisor to figure out how to handle it.

“So, what’s our next move?” she asked, settling down in a chair across from Margaery. “I don’t know whether it’s from love, or honor, or just that Jon doesn’t want to be king, but whatever his reasons, he doesn’t seem willing to try and stop Daenerys from taking the throne.”

Margaery shook her head. “Do you really hate her so much, even after all she did to help us fight the dead?”

Sansa turned away from Margaery, frustrated. Even her lover, it seemed, didn’t understand. “That’s not it at all.”

“Then what is it?” Margaery’s tone wasn’t harsh, but she was clearly upset. “Because, whatever her flaws, I don’t believe that Daenerys is evil.”

Sansa closed her eyes and opened them once more. “Neither do I. In truth, I think the two of us have a great deal in common. We were both born into great houses that had everything that mattered stripped away. We both became exiles. We both suffered a great deal on the road back home.”

“Then why are you so sure she’s our enemy?”

“ _Because_ I understand her,” Sansa said, rising from her chair. “Because I know what I was willing to do in order to retake the North, and I can see in Daenerys’ eyes that she would go just as far for the Seven Kingdoms. And because to her, the North is just one of those kingdoms, a part of her birthright. But I can’t live with that. Not after what the Iron Throne has done to us, under her father, under Joffery…”

“You just admitted Daenerys isn’t like them,” Margaery said. Sansa could hear the worry in her lover’s voice, and she understood it. After all they’d been through already and with Cersei still ahead of them, how could anyone want _another_ war? Sansa certainly didn’t, but this wasn’t about wants, it was about what was necessary.

“Perhaps not,” she conceded. “But what happens after she’s gone? What will the next king or queen be like, or the one after that? The North will never have the influence at court of the Westerlands or the Reach. We’re too different from the other kingdoms and too far from King’s Landing. Independence is the only way to make sure our interests are looked after, and right now, with everything in chaos, we have a chance to make that happen. I can’t let it pass me by.”

“I can see that,” Margaery said gently, before standing up as well. She wrapped her arms around Sansa’s waist and nuzzled in close enough to place soft kisses on the side of her neck. As nice as it felt, Sansa said nothing, instead starring out the window at the castle below. Those who’d survived had done much over the last few days to rebuild, but plenty of scars were still visible on its weathered surfaces.

“So, now that you know everything, tell me what I’m supposed to do now?” she finally asked.

“I don’t know,” Margaery confessed. “I understand what you’re worried about. My family lost everything as well, and I don’t know what I’d be willing to do to take Highgarden back from Cersei. But I do know that we’re in no shape for yet another war. Even if Jon wanted to claim the throne from Daenerys, it would be hard, and without him…”

Her voice trailed off, but there was no need for Margaery to finish the thought. Sansa knew that her lover was right; she might have had determination, but Daenerys had that as well, and dragons too. “We may have to be patient,” she said quietly. “Sometimes, there’s nothing to do except to wait and see what develops.”

Margaery nodded, her hair tickling the side of Sansa’s face. “You may be right.”

Sansa turned in her lover’s arms, bestowing an appreciative kiss on Margaery. As frightening as the future remained, at least she wasn’t facing it alone, and unless she misjudged matters greatly, they still had a bit of time before the crisis came. “Let’s talk about something else,” she offered. “What’s going on with my sister and Lord Gendry Baratheon of Storm’s End?”

Unfortunately, instead of the wicked smile she’d been hoping for, Margaery just shook her head. “Unfortunately, he made the mistake of asking Arya to marry him.”

 _Oh, you poor fool._ Sansa’s laugh was small and rueful. “He certainly didn’t waste any time after being legitimized. I take it she didn’t accept his suit.”

“I’m afraid not,” Margaery agreed. Sansa wasn’t sure if it was her lover’s romantic side showing itself, or if she’d just have enjoyed planning a wedding instead of a war, but either way, Margaery sounded genuinely regretful. “I asked Gendry why not, and he told me that Arya said that being the lady of a great house wasn’t for her.”

“I suppose it’s not,” Sansa agreed, feeling oddly resigned. In the end, everyone was going to be who they were. Ramsay hurt people, Littlefinger lied, Jon tried to play the hero, and Arya refused to play the lady. She and Daenerys were no different; each of them would do what was in their souls, no matter where it led.


	10. Chapter 10

“What’re you doing, Margaery!?”

Margaery’s eyes widened as she turned to see Sansa standing in the doorway of their bedroom. She hadn’t intended for her lover to find out about her plans this way, but there wasn’t really an alternate explanation for why she was gathering up her clothes and putting them in a trunk.

“I’m leaving,” she admitted. “Daenerys' forces are leaving for White Harbor in the morning and I'm going with them.”

Margaery could see the hurt written across Sansa’s face even before she spoke. “Why didn’t you tell me that?”

“I only just made the decision.” Margaery took a deep breath and then added rest of the truth. “And I knew this would be a difficult conversation.”

“So what was your plan?” Sansa demanded. “That I would just wake up tomorrow and find you gone?”

“No! I would never do that, Sansa. I know I was putting this off, but I would’ve found my nerve.”

Sansa took a breath and Margaery could feel the other woman’s eyes looking deep into hers. Trust didn’t come easily to Sansa, but it seemed the two of them had built enough of it, because at last, her face softened.

“All right then. But is this really a good idea? I’m sure you want to be there to see Cersei fall, but this war is no sure thing. We lost a great deal of our strength fighting the dead, and the Lannisters have had time to prepare. Even if we win, not everyone is coming back.”

“I know that. But this is something I have to do. Not just because I want revenge on Cersei, but because I need to be in King’s Landing after the war ends. House Tyrell is all but gone and I can’t trust anyone else to bring it back to life.”

“What about your grandmother? Surely she’s capable of handling the politics in the capital.”

There was such hope in Sansa’s eyes and it pained Margaery to know she had to take it away. “She’s not going south, Sansa. Not now. You know she hasn’t been feeling herself since the crypts. She wasn’t even well enough for the victory feast. Do you really think it makes sense for her to ride into the middle of a war?”

“Are you sure? Perhaps with a day or two more rest…”

Margaery shook her head. “She’d hoped so too, but no. This morning she could scarcely get down the stairs. That’s when I knew I had to go in her place.”

“You’re no soldier, Margaery,” Sansa protested, desperation growing in her voice.

“Neither are you, but you were still there at the Battle of the Bastards. We do what we must for our families.”

At last, Sansa seemed to accept that she couldn’t win the argument. Her eyes grew sad and she reached out, her fingertips brushing across Margaery’s shoulder. “I can’t bear to lose you again, Margaery. It was bad enough when I thought you’d died at the sept, but now, after everything…”

Before she could say any more, Margaery placed her hand on top of Sansa’s, rubbing it affectionately. “I’m not going to die, Sansa. Whatever happens, I won’t be on the front lines.”

Unexpectedly, Sansa drew away, turning to face the window instead. “Maybe not. But when it’s over, will you really come back here?”

“What do you mean?”

“When there’s no Cersei to run from, when House Tyrell has Highgarden again, when you’re warm… are you really going to leave of it all behind for this frozen waste?”

“Sansa, where is this coming from? I love Highgarden but you’re here in the North.”

“Am I enough?” Sansa asked, her voice soft and filled with regret. “I can’t make you a queen, Margaery. I can’t marry you, or give you children. That’s what your grandmother wants for you, and it’s what you deserve. You deserve so much more than I can offer.”

There was a sorrow in her words that bordered on despair, and Margaery’s already aching heart broke. Whatever the reasons she had to go south, she’d never intended to have Sansa think any of this. Still trying to find her words, she came up behind her lover, wrapping her hands around her waist and burying her face in her long, red hair. Sansa was as stiff as iron, and Margaery held her close, pressing their bodies together until she felt a little bit of that tension ebb.

When, at last, she spoke, it was hard for Margaery to hold her voice steady. “Do you remember, in the crypts, when you asked me why I was angry at Tyrion?”

“You told me it could wait.” Sansa shrugged. “I suppose it slipped my mind afterwards.”

Margaery kissed the side of her neck. “I was angry because he’d married you and I can’t. Not because you had feelings for him, but because you didn’t. Because the world lets men and women who don’t even care for one another be married for some political advantage, but no matter what I feel for you, we can’t do the same.”

“What’re you saying, Margaery?” Sansa asked, a fragile hope behind the question.

“I’m saying that I love you, Sansa Stark, and that even if we can’t have all the things we deserve, there’s still no place I’d rather be than at your side.” She laughed a small laugh. “No matter what my grandmother thinks about it.”

Sansa turned, and Margaery could see tears forming in her eyes. “You mean that?”

“I do. I might have come to Winterfell to escape Cersei, but that’s not why I stayed. And never fear, as much as I may miss the warmth of the south, here, I’ll always have you to keep the chill away.”

Sansa kissed her then, as deeply as Margaery had ever been kissed. Her hands cupped Margaery’s face, as if she wanted to remind herself of its contours, to be reassured of their bond. Margaery returned the kiss, pulling Sansa tight against her, her hands running across her back. It might be a long time before they had the chance to be together again, and she wanted to make this count.

She and Sansa fell into the bed entwined, brushing aside the clothes she hadn’t had time to pack yet. Their hands went everywhere, hastily undoing laces and ties, and when Margaery slid beneath the layers of heavy fabric to find warm skin, Sansa’s gasp was sharp and needy.

“I love you too, Margaery. I always will.”

Margaery ran her tongue along the curve of Sansa’s ear, reaching the lobe before whispering, “I know. But I still need something from you, Sansa. Something to remember on that long voyage south…”

“That can be arranged.”

Sansa’s voice caught as she spoke, but there was more happiness there than sorrow in her words. Margaery let her lover’s hands guide her back onto the mattress, arching her arms above her head. As she stretched out, Sansa covered her face with kisses, the warmth of her mouth making Margaery’s skin tingle. Her heart was so full; no matter what came next, right now, this was the only place she wanted to be.

Practiced fingers peeled open her dress, and Margaery leaned up in anticipation. Sansa’s lips traced a path down her neck, nipping and kissing eagerly while her fingers toyed with a nipple that was already stiffening. As Sansa’s mouth closed around the other peak, Margaery buried her hand in her lover’s hair, stroking it affectionately. Sansa had gotten _so_ good at this, switching deftly from one breast to the other, teasing one moment and then truly pleasuring her the next.

Usually Sansa preferred to take Margaery with her fingers, but those times when she’d decided on her mouth, she could be ravenous. It wasn’t long before she was lavishing kisses on Margaery’s stomach, her fingers slipping under the waistband of her smallclothes to tease the sensitive skin beneath.

Margaery wriggled out of her undergarments eagerly, exposing her slick sex. No matter how many times they did this, her lover always took delight in seeing her naked, and that evening was no exception. When Sansa looked up from between her legs, there was such hunger in her gaze that it took Margaery’s breath away, but all of a sudden, she became patient. Sansa skipped past Margaery’s sex, instead scattering kisses across her inner thighs at the same time that her fingers curved around her hips to massage her rear.

“Sansa, please” she murmured as the throbbing between her legs grew sharper. “Please, I need more.”

“Soon my love.” Sansa’s breath was hot on Margaery’s sex, making her tremble. “Today, I want to enjoy every part of you.”

Lost in her desire, Margaery could do nothing but nod in agreement. She did her best to relax as Sansa licked and stroked and toyed with her body, but it wasn’t easy. In the past, Margaery had always prided herself on being in control during sex, but Sansa drove her wild in ways no one else every had. Margaery needed _her_ , and no one and nothing else would do.

Fortunately, Sansa couldn’t keep teasing forever. Gradually, her lips drew closer to her prize, and when they finally closed around the head of Margaery’s clit, Margaery almost came on her spot. As it was, she bucked up hard, grinding shamelessly against Sansa’s face. Sansa was more than capable of keeping up. Her strong hands held Margaery’s rear steady while her tongue caressed her clit, seeking out every sensitive spot for attention.

“Gods, yes!”

Margaery knew she was being loud, but she couldn’t restrain her sounds of pleasure. Not when she was so close already, and not when she needed Sansa to know just how much she was wanted. She tugged at Sansa’s hair and clutched desperately at shoulders that were still covered by the dark wool of her dress. Margaery needed those clothes off, to be touching nothing but bare skin, but not badly enough to make Sansa stop.

Other needs were more pressing, and Sansa knew just what they were. Even as Margaery teetered on the edge, she drew back, looking up from between her legs with lust-darkened eyes. “Tell me what you want,” Sansa demanded.

“You,” Margaery panted, nearly choking on her words. “Your hands, your mouth, your body. Every part of you, my Sansa.”

“Then you shall have them.”

Sansa slid one hand off of Margaery’s ass, and when she plunged two of its fingers inside, Margaery went rigid at once. She was falling over already, but then Sansa added her tongue, fast and firm across her clit, and Margaery exploded fully. Her body arched upward and her inner walls fluttered frantically around this new, most welcome presence.

Charges ran up and down Margaery’s spine with every thrust and stroke, but Sansa didn’t break off or even slow down. Instead, she kept taking Margaery hard and fast, her fingers and mouth working together to push her lover even higher. Margaery screamed, over and over, as Sansa claimed her. And she was claimed, fully and completely. She would always be Sansa’s, their lovemaking simply a perfect reminder of that fact.  
Margaery couldn’t keep track of how much pleasure Sansa pulled out of her. The peaks crashed one top of the other, waves of bliss piling higher and higher until Margaery was hoarse, and sore, and spent. Only then, when her cries had turned to whimpers, did Sansa relent. Gently, she slid her fingers out, licking them clean with obvious delight as Margaery looked on in awe. Her lover did make one last pass with her tongue, dipping it inside for more of the taste she so clearly loved, but after she got it, she straightened, looking down at Margaery with evident satisfaction in her eyes.

“Is that, perhaps, what you meant, Lady Margaery?”

“Y… yes,” Margaery stammered. Her voice was still shaky, but seeing Sansa’s face flushed with desire inspired her enough to make it work. “But there’s still more I need.”

Margaery loved the playful smile that spread across Sansa’s face, the one that only she got to see. “Oh, really? And what might that be?”

“I need to return the favor.”


End file.
